


The Lazarus Complex

by Punk_Kenobi



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blood and Torture, F/M, Homelessness, M/M, Small mention of sexual abuse, Spiritual identity issues, Unwise sexual practices(consensual), Vampire AU, Vampire Turning, sexual identity issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 19:04:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6090982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Punk_Kenobi/pseuds/Punk_Kenobi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You have brought Sin to Heaven and doom upon all the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lazarus Complex

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous/gifts).



> Oh holy shit this feels good to be posting. For starters, this is something I have been working on for the better part of two _years._ Through college ups and downs, Bipolar ups and downs, through periods of creative boon and creative bust, this thing has been the fruits of it. Three nearly whole rewrites later, it's done. Am I happy with it? Not entirely, but it's far better than what I wrote before. That all being said, enjoy. I really have far too much to talk about with this fic for a small notes box. All I know is that it's probably not worth the time that went into it, but that's for you guys to decide.

_Laurent Aventis: Born in 1765, death unknown(Suspected victim of religious punishment)'_

_Mitchell Cronin: Born in 1956, death by suicide by hanging(Connected to disappearance of three children)_

_Alexander R.: Born in 1632, died of supposed asphyxiation and exposure(Body never found, last seen near Lake Baikal in Siberia)_

The notes plaster the old stone walls like roof shingles to cover the cracking and discolored facade, cover the antiquated desktop, and litter the floor and clog the wicker trash bin. Candid photos of seemingly insignificant city streets and buildings are strung up like Christmas lights among a myriad of newspaper clippings, painting a curious mosaic. Their headlines in bold lettering emphasize peculiar murders and disappearances over the centuries, all tying back to the empty photos. Coffee mugs, unwashed, sit empty around the dark room little larger than a pantry, for that is exactly what the room had served as long ago. The small chair that sits in the middle of the room holds the owner, staring at his wall in deep thought, long fingers formed into a steeple against his chin. He's sleepless, the two AM downpour keeping him awake and driving him underground to focus until the morning brings him to his knees in prayer.

This is Thranduil's life. He is a priest to most. To few others, he is an inherent threat. The notes on the wall spell out whom Thranduil seeks.

_LSE Trader’s Disappearance for One Year without Any Leads_

_Three Children Adopted by Wealthy Stock Broker Bard Bowman_

_Million Pound Deal Brokered Between Bard and Mining Magnate in Lifelong Friendship_

Thranduil has little but this underground sanctuary and his son, fostered with a friend who is known to foster children with parents in dangerous professions. Elrond keeps watch of Legolas even now into his teens, sending correspondence now and then. It's better that way, even if he doesn’t see his son more than once every year or so.

Thranduil grows tired of staring at his wall, finding no further insight, and rises from his seat. His leg protests at the motion, an old hunt injury he lies about. He remembers it vividly, each of his steps now mirrored with a tap of a cane. An elk's head adorns the handle, the antlers wrapping around his fingers to form a comfortable grip. He limps to his hidden medicine cabinet and takes ibuprofen to help the pain. Washing it down with a swig of wine would help if he had any in his hidden store.

_You've always been gluttonous and hedonistic. Being in an abbey changes nothing._

Thranduil removes himself upstairs, hiding his private study behind a bookshelf, and heads for his sparse living quarters. Seeking his closet, he dons his standard black ensemble, fastening the white strip of stiff fabric under his shirt collar. He ties his hair into a ponytail to keep it away from the fabric. He makes sure his cane is ready, as he looks himself over in the mirror.

"Good." he says to the mirror, his reflection nodding in approval. He's still there.

He steps out into the pouring rain and inky darkness to hunt once more, the light of day only hours away even if it'll be marred by cloud and rain.

He hopes for a kill tonight.

\-----

He stands out in a crowd, to be sure. 

People turn their heads, unsure of what to make of such a beautiful priest. He's heard the lines about angels flying low and rent boy options. He only knows that he is loyal to what he believes in regardless of the church's blessing. Others scoff at his beauty being marred by the cane, thinking him too young to be so injured. Thranduil acknowledges none of it, as he only has it for his health. In either case he turns the interested down quite brusquely. There is no room for love in his heart anymore, save for the parts he spares for Legolas and his work. Besides, he could never take a lover while in the church. That doesn't mean he hasn't tried.

Thranduil has his followers, in and out of the abbeys of England. They help support his search for more targets with intel and sometimes even real ashes and fangs to present him. He only wishes he had taken them down himself. He has eyes all around the world even though he can't leave London, his email blowing up with each new sighting or suspicion. He's amassed thousands of followers in the time he’s been working on his secret trade and Thranduil feels no small sense of pride in that fact.

A king, some call him, a divine, fair-haired savior from the bloodsucking menace. If he's honest, he barely leaves the abbey except when on the trail of a vampire, as he is now. Still, honesty isn't a trait he can apply to himself.

His most trusted friend, Galion, has tipped him off to a deviation in Bard's normal routine, instead stopping by a cafe on his way to work rather than a direct commute. Thranduil takes this information over the phone as he strides through the throng of people. He keeps his eyes wide open for anything suspicious, heading for the cafe Galion specified.

"Aren't you supposed to be back at Westminster?" Thranduil asks him with a hint of amusement in his tone. "I didn't think they allowed field trips for seminary kids."

_"They don't. I told them I would be shadowing a superior through his routine, am I not?"_

"And my nightly ventures?"

_"To their knowledge, I have parents in need of partial support at all times of the day."_ Galion replies easily. _"And you're no spring chicken, you know."_

Thranduil laughs. "Shut up, you're not long out of school. I should be calling your parents for their permission to bring you out into the field."

_"I would say you should be back at Westminster but you barely leave. You look like you could use some fresh air."_

"I'm on a job, remember that." Thranduil brushes his hair out of his face, the wind picking up. "Now tell me, how long has he been in that cafe?"

_"No more time than a normal person. He's sitting at a table with someone...his oldest child, from the looks of it. He's probably just getting her some coffee before school...can vampires drink coffee?"_

"I have no idea..." Thranduil muses on that question. "Keep your eyes out, Galion. You're in a safe location, yes?"

There's a snicker over the line. _"Look up."_

More snickers as he looks around and finds nothing. _"You call yourself an expert? Your other left, Thranduil. You're getting rusty."_

He sees Galion trying to stifle his laughter from up in a fire escape and sends a particularly rude finger his way.

"You are the worst, Galion, and I should fire you."

_"You don't pay me."_ Galion retorts, wiping his eye. _"And you like me too much to let me go."_

"No, you're right, I won't. You're able to climb up walls like Spiderman, it seems." Thranduil rolls his eyes.

_"It's called parkour and it's a good skill to have in our line of work."_

"Did they teach you that in seminary? I think I missed Wall Climbing 101." Sarcasm drips from Thranduil's tone.

_"No but we were taught to observe and it seems you've forgotten your teachings already."_ Galion's tone changes over the phone to one of seriousness. _"He's right in front of you."_

Thranduil, for all of his faults, is extremely observant save for the black-clad figure stopped in front of him, almost comedic in his imposing stature. The girl hides in the doorway of the cafe, looking ready to bolt. It feels like something straight out of a thriller film. Thranduil continues the trend by dropping his phone in shock.

Thranduil feels like time has stopped. _You've found him._

"So...this is the famous Thranduil Oropherion I've heard so much about. Care for a coffee?" The man holds out a paper cup, grinning. "Your friend didn't exactly make himself subtle. I've been watching you, Thranduil. I can let you go back to your conversation if you'd prefer but I think you're more interested in me. My daughter has to leave for school, will you oblige her of that first?"

Thranduil nods. The girl is human, not a threat. "Of course I will. Go, child, your guardian and I need to talk."

She flees as quickly as possible in the throng, the crowd now parting around them and more eyes quickly diverting away from them.

Thranduil's eyes narrow cautiously as Bard approaches, gauging the situation for a potential attack. It's a crowded area, he tells himself. He’s unlikely to attack even if provoked. The area is safe, but tentatively so. Keep vigilant and alert.

"So what do you think, a nice street brawl or a more gentlemanly affair?" Bard smiles, though it's a tired one if Thranduil's ever seen one.

"Why would you stay? You should have fled like the others when I was first alerted to them." Thranduil replies coolly, holding his hands behind his back, fidgeting the rosary around his wrist. The black beads clink and rustle at the movement. "They fear me."

Bard laughs, a sound that felt hollow to Thranduil's ears among the throng of the crowd. "Oh, I don't fear you, Thranduil. I am old and ancient. I have seen your kind for hundreds of years. I have run too many times needlessly and have left hearts behind that I never intended to break. People like yours come along every couple of decades and they never truly succeed nor leave me alone. You get used to the flighty lifestyle after a while but it would be nice to settle for a couple of decades."

Thranduil grips the beads tighter, frowning. "Not if I have anything to say about it."

"I figured as much. Just another half-baked priest with flagging loyalty to his religion chasing after something he’s been taught to believe as evil. Bard rolls his eyes and checks his watch. Well, I have to be at work in fifteen minutes and then attend a play my youngest is putting on at her school around noon. I've got more to do than talk with a priest about my demise. It’s a shame I don’t have time to walk."

Bard vanishes in a throng of passersby without a sound, leaving Thranduil dumbstruck and slightly unnerved. People walk around him, occasionally throwing dirty looks or even an invective his way for blocking the sidewalk.

He's never met a vampire who lacks fear, who acts so...tired. He isn't sure how to go about this at all.

_Do I wait and let Bard live another day? Does he always expect to die? Perhaps._

Plan A is unsuitable.

_Do I simply call Smaug and have him take Bard down before he reaches his workplace? No, Smaug likes big and showy deaths, pyres and all. It would do no good to have a witch at the stake in the lobby of the LSE. I don’t even know where either of them are. My name would be dragged through the mud._

Plan B is unfeasible.

_I could keep watching for Bard, try to draw him out at a time and place when seclusion could be achieved, but what would come of the confrontation?_

Plan C is possible, but extremely unpredictable.

Thranduil's head spins with the possibilities and before his anxiety can spike, he heads for the safety and seclusion of Westminster. There he can regroup, collect his thoughts, and form a plan of action during mass.

_A plan that might actually succeed for a change…_

\-----

"So how much did you make today, Da?" Tilda asks over supper, curious mind always questioning.

Bard chuckles and portions out another helping of rice onto her plate. "That's grown up stuff, you know that."

"Then tell Sigrid or Bain!"

Bard laughs heartily. "Tilda, they're teenagers. They're far from adults."

Protests from the older two pour out in spades, making Bard wonder whether or not he made an error in judgement. Hundreds of years old and he's still just as inept at parenting as when he raised a child vampire turned by a rival coven in the 1760's. She was a lovely girl, but she decided to stay with the coven that turned her only a few years afterward. The last thing he remembered of her was her bright blue eyes and dark hair. Thorin has told him about a sister of his that looked the same.

The priest, on the other hand, made for an interesting puzzle.

"I did meet someone special today, however."

"Like who, like who?" Tilda bounces in her seat until her father gestures to her plate. "Tell us!"

"Well, his name is Thranduil. He's a priest, and a very important one. Sigrid saw him, as well." Bard said, tilting his chair back and relaxing in lieu of eating with them. "He's a good man, even if stubborn. I had to end our meeting early but I get the feeling it wouldn't have gone anywhere."

Bain and Sigrid exchange worried looks. They know what their caregiver is and with everything they know about vampires, they know clergymen aren't good news. They have so many questions and they know the answers won't be good.

Bain sets his cutlery down, though his plate is still half-full. "I-I thought vampires don't like priests, Da."

"We don't, Bain, and I don't like Thranduil, per se. I just want to find out if he really intends on killing me or not. Many who said they would never did." Bard flashes a smile, genuine and warm without the teeth he knows they fear, to his children. "Welcome him with open arms if he ever finds you three. I want to show him true hospitality. He seemed thrown off by the fact that I did not fear him, so it is likely he fears me more, and I don't want another enemy."

Sigrid is quiet, pushing the food around on her plate. Bard knows she's not at all approving of his plan, as he expected, but he knows she trusts him regardless. Bain excuses himself quietly and heads upstairs to work on homework while Tilda sits in front of the TV to watch her cartoons. Bard thinks they rot her brain but there's a certain appeal to them that Tilda loves and he won't deny her something she loves that is that harmless. The TV blares out a tinkling, happy tune as Sigrid pulls her father into the kitchen by his sleeve as he’s about to join her sister.

"Da...do you think this priest will kill you?" Sigrid doesn’t look him in the eye, instead her gaze on the linoleum beneath her feet. She chews her bottom lip in thought. "You know I don't really like it when you...feed, but I'd rather have a father that feeds than not have one at all."

Bard pulls his oldest daughter into a hug that is comforting if not warm. He can always smell his children for what they are as humans, but he would never lay a harmful hand upon them as he promised a couple years ago. An added side effect is that he can sense when his children are upset by how fast their blood rushes in their veins. Sigrid's blood moves swiftly.

"I don't think he will, Sigrid. His spies are mediocre and Thranduil rarely does his own job. You remember what he looked like. "

“Yeah...he looked terrified.”

“And judging by that cane, I don’t think Thranduil can move all too quickly. Still, he is fluid and graceful when he does, from what friends have told me.”

Sigrid thinks on this then sighs, wiping her eyes. "Just be careful, Da. I know you've been alive for much of this country’s history but I still think you can be a clod at times. Don't mess this up." A small, watery smile graces her features.

Bard chuckles and pats her shoulder. "I won't, don't worry. You'd have to be stupid to have been alive this long. I'm no exception. I've done many stupid things in my time..."

The look on Sigrid's face is questioning, curious, but it fades as Bard sets to the task of cleaning the dishes. He knows she doesn’t want to know.

\-----

Thranduil's not sure when this became a game of cat and mouse. Bard would occasionally show up outside the main doors to the abbey in the night, always at three AM. The witching hour, Thranduil recalls each night as he tiptoes out of his bedroom. As soon as he opens the door as quietly as he can, though, the vampire seems to leave, not by cloud of shadow but by foot. Thranduil rarely has the energy or motivation to follow at such a late hour, his leg protesting a chase. They merely give each other this lethargic expression of understanding.

It’s a rather lethargic game of cat and mouse, anyway.

His fellow priests, the ones not in his hidden circle, give him odd looks as his daytime appearance seems to disintegrate.

"You look pale, are you all right?"

"Have you been sleeping? Your eyes have dark circles under them."

  
He waves off every note of concern, going about his daily routine with sparse trips out of the abbey, mainly to pick up more wine. He claims it’s for the communion but he always buys an extra bottle for his secret stash. It’s hard to be an alcoholic while in the priesthood but he manages. Ever since the accident he drank initially for the pain and then just because he felt like it.

He's noticed that Bard has moved positions in the LSE and is now higher up in the chain. That means his hours are more of the nightly persuasion to keep up with worldwide economic change. To Bard it must be a fine change indeed, for traveling at night is much easier to do. There’s less chance of being caught by wandering priests and quieter streets for driving if not on foot.

Thranduil considers giving up on this particular vampire, though, especially when a scout of his reports one from around where the Durin clan keeps themselves. Thorin Oakenshield has no family at such a seemingly young age and there are no pictures of the owners and founder even when the executives have to go to publicity events. Where there should be a person, standing tall and oh so snide, there is only air and empty space. The name of the founding member was Thorin as well, not a common name even among family lines. Most say that Thorin is merely reclusive and introverted, that he's a misanthropic CEO more interested in his funds than his family. Thranduil knows more than they do and they're partially right in their estimation. This vampire, however, was not Thorin hunting, for the magnate refuses blood steadfastly. The scout said he looked like the man, though, which piques his interest.

Thranduil pulls out the phone he keeps in his desk. It doesn't ring, merely vibrates when he has a message, for his correspondents don't talk to him except at night and when they have something to report. This time he texts one of his hunters. He knows the man will be awake despite the hour, the stump where his left forearm had been aching much as his own leg does now.

_I have a job for you. Thorin Oakenshield and clan. Keep it clean. Find him and take him out, along with his clan if possible. -Thranduil Oropherion_

Azog the Defiler is a brawny man Thranduil dragged out of prison with the word of God at nineteen during his time in seminary. He and the young bruiser shared their interest in vampires once Thranduil mentioned them despite Azog’s assault charges. Thranduil himself had been in on public intoxication and heroin use charges, though he transferred to a rehab and psychiatric hospital soon after. Once let go, he rejoined his seminary school and joined back up with Azog, now one of his best hunters.

_Understood. I'll get on finding his hidey hole._

Thranduil hangs up and sighs, a throb in his leg reminding him of his fatigue. He won't even give Thorin the attention himself. He'll let someone else take the heat if this job goes south. Thorin is nothing but another vampire to him, though he's one of a high-profile status. Taking a swig from his bottle of wine, he reclines in his desk chair and listens to the pipes creak above his head.

There’s something about Bard that he finds fascinating. Bard doesn’t want to run; he doesn’t want a couple high-octane chases before his ultimate demise. There’s something ancient about him, as if he’s been alive for too long and perhaps he has been.

_For a given measure of alive…_ Thranduil snorts while mouthing the bottle and taking a gulp or two.

At three AM, he creeps out of his study on decidedly uneven footing, using the wall as a brace in absence of his cane. Luckily, he’s able to hide his inebriation well when he hears footsteps coming down a hallway, hiding in a closet to avoid detection. Once the footsteps stop inside a bedroom, he makes his way to the front doors, opening them to find Bard waiting at the end of the path. Oddly enough, Bard doesn't disappear even if he wanted to do so.

“You’re late, Thranduil.” he says smoothly, calmly, as if this were nothing more than an ordinary meeting.

Thranduil can only stare, his cheeks dusted pink by both the wine and the sight before him. The leather gloves resting on the ornate fencing around the paths entrance, a finely shoed foot tapping at the ground. His attention flags between gazing at each magnificent feature.

"Why do you come every night? Thranduil asks, the slur in his voice unmistakable.

"I want to be here. I used to be religious myself in my old life. It’s a familiar and comforting sight, even if I cannot enter." Bard answers with a shrug of his shoulders.

Thranduil squints, awkwardly shuffling forward. If they aren’t going to fight then he won’t waste energy trying to walk properly. Clearly, Bard doesn’t judge, as he even holds out a gloved hand for him to take as a brace. Thranduil refuses, stumbling slightly.

“Why? Don't you have work at night now?” A hiccup accentuates his question.

Bard thinks for a while before answering. “Let's just say I make it a part of my lunch break.”

They both know what he means. Thranduil frowns, a look of disgust plain on his features. He can’t believe someone of this level of depravity would even come into the vicinity of such a holy place after such a slaughter.

“You’re disgusting.” Thranduil spits. “Get away from here, you’re not welcome.”

“I’ve done you no harm, nor the abbey.” Bard lowers his voice. “And if you’re not careful, you will be caught. Lower your voice.”

Thranduil fights the urge to yell despite his drunkenness. “Do not speak to me as if I were one of your children.”

“It’s hard not to when you’re acting like my youngest when she was in first grade." Bard scowls, frustrating Thranduil to no end. The points of his teeth glint in the light of the street light. “Go back to bed, Thranduil. I’ll speak to you when you’re sober. Doubtless you’ll be no less stubborn even then."

Bard vanishes in smoke. Thranduil isn’t sure if he wants to shout or cry. He keeps letting Bard get away. Why does he even bother? He collapses into his office chair, his eyes shutting against the gritty ceiling.

_He's attached to a cross by wrist cuffs. He tries tugging on them to free himself. Pain shoots up his leg as he begins to writhe in the restraint, realizing for a second that it isn't wrist cuffs holding him there but nails in his hands, blood sluggishly dribbling down his skin. He's had dreams of this before except not with a wrought crucifix but his body entangled in trees. The memory of that dream only makes him squirm further, anticipating the body horror that had ensnared him in prior dreams._

_"Calm. You're in no danger here."_

_That soft voice lowers as Bard approaches him, eyeing him up and down in a way he's had many people do over the years. In Bard's eyes, he's both beautiful and delicious. Said eyes are dark though they shine with playful zeal rather than immediate hunger. His smile is all teeth, pointed teeth he knows are surely a sign that they need to end their conversation. The fact that they graze his ear again only solidifies his need to move, to run, and to protect the son that he never could protect. He can feel the sharp tips begging to dig into his flesh and he can't hold back a shudder as the teeth leave, a quiet voice purring in his ear as a hand presses lightly to his chest, cold above his shirt._

_"I would have you, you know."_

_"If only I could..." Thranduil writhes ever more as the pain in his leg increases. "What kind of man do you take me for?"_

_One who denies himself._

_Deft, skilled hands slide over naked skin, for what more could Thranduil wear upon such an ornamental sacrifice but his own skin. Things become a haze of sensation as he loses himself in the feeling of being unraveled, taken apart for this sick pleasure. The tongue carefully lapping at the blood on his hands is soft and sends chills down his spine._

_"You taste so divine...as you should..."_

_He has only ever known the pleasure of a woman's body, before he took the vows, but this is something he has longed for much longer. As the hands slide lower Thranduil surrenders to them, surrendering to this forbidden sin._

He wakes to nothing but frustration, anger, and the pants he fell asleep in feeling quite uncomfortably tight. He's in his study, unaware and uncaring of what the time is at the moment. He needs to forget.

As he pops the cork on a cheap store bought vintage he bought while out for supplies, he hears voices from outside the bookshelf that hides his study door clearly looking for him.

He really ought to leave, but he wants nothing more than to be in his private sanctuary for the day. Responsibilities be damned.

\-----

Bard enjoys his visits with Thranduil. When the priest is sober, they discuss their conflicting interests and so far, no violence is threatened. He knows Thranduil is only trying to gain information before he can strike, he's seen this pattern before, so this time he'll humor the man.

Thranduil, on his part, is being driven mad. His sleepless nights and lethargic days become mixed into one and the incessant pestering from those around him has made his mood ever fouler. He hears whispers of concern, that he's unraveling, that he might even be possessed. By what Thranduil could not guess, for the only thing possessing his spirit is the need to destroy the vampire that has him so ensnared. So long as he doesn't start speaking in tongues, he's fine. What's even better is when Bard leaves on a series of consecutive business trips, leaving Thranduil more time for sleep and more time for his spirituality. He's missed his time conducting Masses, joining the choir.

That doesn't mean Bard leaves him alone. Three days after his absence a letter is left on the doorstep, again at three AM.

_I'm in Thessaloniki I see your trackers, since they don't know how to hide very well. You ought to train them better. I might pay them a visit one evening if they're not more careful. I do need some nourishment; it's hard to find a break to eat on trips._

A couple days later, Thranduil hears that one of his hunters has gone missing. The body is never found. Thranduil mourns though only a fiery resolve flares in him, waiting for when Bard returns.

_Washington DC isn't as interesting when there’s no war going on. Now it's just petty fights over whether or not the suburbs are a part of the city's spirit and government corruption scandals. How boring. You might like it, the National Cathedral is something to behold...not that I could go inside. There’s too much silver for my liking, of course._

He receives a picture of the cathedral with that letter. The picture is taken at such an angle where the cathedral is in center frame, but there should be someone in front of it. Thranduil knows there is. The picture goes on his desk in a frame, the image quite beautiful despite the invisible presence. The letter goes into his trash bin, utterly forgotten.

_I’m back in Prague once more. I haven't been here since the Second World War. It's changed quite a bit but I can still smell the blood spilled here. I wish I hadn't have had to be involved at all. I was a spy for the British Army, though. Nocturnal beings make great spies, especially when they can turn into a bat and rest during the day, hidden. Vampires aren't all monsters._

Thranduil knows this entire note is a lie as he limps inside from retrieving the note. He knows that there were many vampires in the Axis armies, none of which were at all decent in their wanton slaughter. Bard, at least, tried to take down the enemy from the inside. He was known as the Mitternacht Engel in that time, bringing justice to the Germans by killing in the night and leaving few alive by day. Whole platoons were destroyed. His real name at the time has been lost to history in favor of the pseudonym that lined newspapers for weeks in less strictly controlled areas of the world than the Third Reich.

_Dubai is great. There'll be a new bottle of your favorite 1985 Brunello on your doorstep with this letter. I hope you like it, it's my treat. Be sure to hide it, of course, you don't want your alcoholism discovered by your superiors. I can't imagine priesthood getting you a job in the real world._

Sure enough, the bottle is wrapped delicately and set on the doorstep a week later. Thranduil never touches it until his impulses take hold one horrid evening when he drinks the entire bottle in one go. He wakes up the next morning in his bed, a bucket placed next to his head on the floor. Galion sleeps in the chair in the corner of the room. When he looks at the clock, it's nearly noon. He realizes that Galion must have had to drag him here and cover for him, and that his repeated absences won't help his case. Guilt and fear roils in his stomach and pain radiates from his leg as he leans over the bed, sick with all sorts of emotions.

Thranduil is given no leniency when brought before the bishop later on that day, as he is not repentant of his ways and doesn't plan on changing. He admits to conspiring against the Church's wishes and interests, though he omits what he's planned. He is removed from Westminster with little fanfare along with what little of a life he had. Before he leaves, he packs all of his notes and materials into the small bag he's been allowed, sealing his room and trusting Galion with the knowledge of its location. As he shuts the clasps, a hand rests on his shoulder.

"You are still my friend, Thranduil. Those loyal to your cause are still loyal to you regardless. I'll keep in touch if things change...and I'll still talk to you. I promise.”

Galion looks to the floor. “I just want you to consider what brought you to this point, where you lost your faith in God and put all of your focus on the darkness of the world, and why you decide to chase the shadows rather than face the light. You are no longer the vibrant man I once knew, Thranduil. You’re foul during the day and drunk at night.”

His dark eyes rise and gaze straight into his, critical. “I am your friend and I agree with your hunting of vampires. I don’t agree with your choice of nocturnal life when it turns you so disagreeable. I will be there for you should you need it, but only if you choose to renounce your disruptive and self-destructive behavior.”

Thranduil doesn’t speak, only leaving the abbey one limping step at a time and never looking back. It’s clear he is no longer welcome.

\------

Thranduil rides the Underground with no particular direction, as it’s a cold day, day three since he left Westminster. The air seeps into his skin and bones, leaving his leg in a constant ache and the rest of him shivering. The riders look at him in confusion and then avert their gaze when he glares at them in return. He shuffles through his newspaper clippings, finds new ones from the papers lying around in the train car. This gives him a wide berth, something for which he’s eternally grateful. He looks the part of what he is, after all.

He’s more clean-cut than most homeless individuals are, to be sure.

As a younger priest, his salary was meagre and most he gave to the church. He has little in the way of a savings account. Most of it he spent on seminary and the vices he had before he took the vows. He has a matter of days before the money he has is expended entirely. As the train rushes to its next stop, he decides to get off and find whatever food he can for cheap. As the doors open and the throng of riders disperse, Thranduil thinks he sees Bard at the top of the stairs to the surface.

The cane is lifted from the ground and he runs up the steps. The figure vanishes, not in a plume of smoke but simple disappearance. Not like Bard at all. Thranduil nearly falls as he stumbles over the last step, earning him dirty looks and some hurled invectives from the other commuters and tourists. He skirts to the edge of the crowd and scans the city street for any sign of the vampire.

Then he realizes the sun is shining, clear and blue sky adorning it. Bard would never step out in this light.

Thranduil squints at the brightness of it. "Must have been a trick of my eyes."

As he walks the streets, he wonders what to do now. He has no education past what the church gave him. He has no home to parent Legolas in, let alone the money to raise him and given that he had to turn him over as a toddler, Legolas likely doesn't remember him.

Elrond would, though. He’s always allowed for less fortunate to find shelter in his home.

Digging his cell phone out of his pocket, Thranduil dials a number he hasn't touched in years. It's his work cell number, as Elrond doesn't give out his home number and he's always at the hospital anyway. A few rings and there's a voice on the other end.

_"Hello?"_

Silence. Thranduil suddenly feels trepidation.

_"....hello? Is anyone there?"_

Thranduil’s unsure if he wants to ask this of him. "Hello, Elrond."

An exhale of breath over the line gives over to a relieved sigh. _"Hello, Thranduil. How are you?"_

They talk casually over the course of a few minutes. Years of silence doesn't change anything between them as they speak as if their last conversation was a week ago.

"So...I don't know what to do, Elrond."

_"What do you mean?"_ he replies, clearly confused.

"I've been laicized. Defrocked, if you will."

There's silence over the phone for several moments. _"Why?"_

"My drinking."

More silence. Thranduil's convinced Elrond has abandoned the call until he inhales. _"So what do you need?"_

The tone Elrond uses belies that he knows Thranduil won't utilize therapy or rehab. Thranduil has no patience for a condescending therapist and the crazed insomnia and delirium tremens that accompany rehab.

"I need...a home. Somewhere I can sleep and work."

_"Oh right...your vampires."_ The roll of eyes is practically audible over the phone. _"They're not real, Thranduil. You know this."_

"I know they aren't..." Thranduil prides himself on being able to deceive others of his true intent. "I just...need a place to stay for now. To rest."

More silence. _"You will help Celebrian with our household chores in exchange for your stay. In addition, the children can use someone at home with them when Celebrian is out. Is that reasonable?"_

"Very. Thank you, Elrond." Thranduil feels a weight lift off his shoulders. "How is Legolas?"

_"He is fine. He barely remembers you, though. I doubt he would have any rapport with you."_

That isn't what Thranduil wants to hear. "Then perhaps I can build that."

_"Perhaps, Thranduil. Perhaps."_

Within minutes, they end the call. Thranduil makes his way to the train station, using the last of his money on the ticket. Elrond lives in a secluded house near Kielder, totally off the grid near the Scottish border. He says he likes the quiet but to be so utterly disconnected and with children...it doesn't add up. He still works an hour and a half away and with that he has a connection to the world but aside from that, he's almost unknown.

Thranduil arrives to this secluded bastion of safety hours later, tired and frazzled from the many transfers. He rings the doorbell, tying his dirty hair into a ponytail.

Might as well look presentable, he thinks.

Celebrian answers the door with a smile. "Hello, my dear. Elrond told me you would be arriving. You poor thing, come in and sit."

She ushers him in and he sits where she puts him. Scattered on the floor are baby toys and video games. An odd mixture, for sure, handheld consoles and building blocks and textbooks combined with picture books.

"You have another child?" he asks her as he sets his suitcase down.

"Yes, a little two year old. His father died violently and his mother's in hiding, so his mother trusted Elrond to care for him. We've named him Estel at her request to keep his identity a secret." Celebrian replies as she makes him a cup of tea in the kitchen. “You can meet him when he wakes from his afternoon nap.”

“I would like that. And Legolas, he’s at school?”

“Yes. He does very well, he's quite smart." Thranduil can hear the smile in her voice. "He's in the archery club at his school and he's the best member there."

"Oh? Well good." Thranduil stretches his leg and winces. "Err…do you have any aspirin? I ran out a couple days ago."

Celebrian comes back with the water set to boil and nods. "Of course."

Thranduil settles in, counting the seconds until Legolas arrives home. Eventually, a car pulls into the drive and two teenagers and two pre-teens get out. The four get in the door in a cacophonous uproar. Shoes are left in the mudroom, coats are hung up, and as they reach the living room, backpacks are discarded on the floor. All the while, they bicker and shout, as teenagers do. Legolas pauses when he sees the figure sitting on the couch, leg outstretched on an ottoman, asleep in front of a TV tuned to nothing in particular.

He thinks of waking him but then thinks better, since it looks like this is the first time he's slept in a week. His muddied shoe is staining the ottoman.

\-----

Dinner that evening is an awkward affair. Thranduil and Legolas are left alone while the other family eats separately. Thus, the two of them pick at their plates.

"School?"

"Doing well. I've got good grades and all."

"Good, good."

That's the extent of their conversation, Thranduil asking whatever questions come to mind and his son answering briefly. He knows Legolas doesn't really recognize him as a father and surrenders to that fact, that someone else will be his father figure.

"Do you want to go eat with the others?"

Legolas looks at him, his eyes seemingly seeing through him with their piercing blue, the only thing Legolas got from him. Soon they soften as a sympathetic smile graces his features.

"Kind of, yeah. Sorry about that."

Thranduil shakes his head, knowing this was a terrible idea. "It's fine, Legolas. Go on, then."

As he watches Legolas leave for the main dinner table, he thinks that he may not have had a son to begin with. That he's alone and the one person who he's related to by blood doesn't see him as a parent but as a stranger. He has no reason to live here over the streets of London.

He's not hungry anymore. He's only thirsty.

Later on that night, Thranduil raids Elrond's wine cabinet. As a nice Moscato goes down his throat, he can feel his worries lessening. He hears Elrond arrive home from the hospital from his guest bedroom, exhaustion in his tone but genuine contentment covering it. He and Celebrian talk, the older children talk with them, the younger play video games, and all the while, he sits on his bed drinking his feelings away. They think he's asleep, turning in early from being so stressed. For now, he's destressing in his own way. Eventually he'll sleep and when the dreams return, he'll wake and drink some more.

Before he falls asleep, a light shines into his darkened room. Thranduil squints against the brightness and realizes Elrond is frowning at him, his arms crossed.

"You shouldn't be here, Thranduil. You know where you need to be but you refuse and steal my wine, to boot."

Thranduil turns away and now he's utterly awake. "Couldn't sleep...can't sleep. Needed something."

He feels a dip in the bed as Elrond sits next to him, taking the bottle gently from his hands. He's about to protest and realizes it would be pointless. "I know that was yours. I'll pay for it."

"Don't worry about it." Elrond sighs, looking at the bottle. "I worry about you, I always have. Ever since…"

"We don't...we're not...." Thranduil slurs, curling into himself. His leg gives a throb in response.

"Thranduil, you can't live like this forever-"

"I can live however I want!" Thranduil stands, ignoring the way the world wavers and goes gray at the edges, the spike of pain jolting up his spine dulled by alcohol. "I don't need you to tell me what or where I should be!"

"You're killing yourself, Thranduil! You've been kicked out of the only environment you ever lived or made money in, you're wearing out your leg faster than you should be, and you can barely stand." Thranduil feels a hand take his. "I can get you help. You know I can. All you have to do is put aside your pride and ask."

_Your pride..._

"I don't need you."

He leaves that night, suitcase in hand and bottle of wine in the other. This had been a terrible idea. If he sees a shadowy figure approach the home as he leaves, he chalks it up to his imagination and the light of a lamp gleaning off the snow.

\-----

_1765_

The meeting of his coven hadn't gone well. Bard knew the new ones were becoming restless with the strict rules; as an elder, he was tasked with keeping the new ones under control. That didn't mean accidents didn't happen every now and then. This time it had been a new rogue who attacked a group of vagrant children by the river. The drained, slaughtered bodies had been all the newspapers could talk about, particularly one blond boy who had run away from affluent parents. He'd tried to find the culprit to bring him into the coven for support but he'd eluded his grasp. Another, more dangerous incident involved a member of the Church, a pastor walking home late at night.

The Church was now on the hunt for vampires and their coven was spiraling out of control. Everyone was suspected and pyres killed humans and vampires indiscriminately.

Bard ran as fast as his legs would take him, hearing the commotion close behind and feeling the fire of the torches at his back start to sear and lacerate his skin. The sun was setting, he just had to get far enough into the forest to become obscured by trees. Then he could fly to his customary feeding grounds to do his nightly hunt. Right now, with how dangerous the situation was, he fed only on animals. It was never enough, tasting like ashes, but it would sate him for the time being.

"He's a vampire! Get him!" "Burn the spawn of Lucifer!"

The sun slipped behind the horizon as he vanished in a plume of darkness, the voices fading from earshot.

When Bard arrived at his hunting grounds, he was nearly mad with hunger. Still he smelled an unfamiliar, very vampire presence. Growling, he looked around for the culprit and found him leaning against a tree trunk, staring at a rabbit lying at his feet. It had clearly been fed on; entrails were scattered about and drained of blood, not a clean kill at all. The figure watched the carcass as if it were something fascinating, something terrifying. Bard's arrival startled him, making him jump up and prepare to leave but Bard grabbed his collar first, fisting it in between his fingers.

"What are you doing here?"

The figure never lifted his head, though the tone of his low, rumbling voice was desperate. "I don't want to feed."

Bard was taken aback by this, slowly coming out of his frenzied state to release the man gingerly, setting him down on his feet. "You have to. It's a part of who you are. It will gnaw at you from the inside out if you don't, friend."

"It is disgusting...revolting, repulsive...I was never a man too enamored with the Church but it's blasphemous and sinful all the same. I...I can't." The man shudders, resting against the tree. He started to turn away and Bard placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "This often happens to those newly turned, friend. Will you tell me your name?"

There was silence for several minutes as the man considered before he turned to face Bard. His hair was disheveled and he looked sallow-faced, like that of a vampire who hadn't fed in far too long. His face and beard were spattered with blood and viscera, which made him look savage if not for the fear in his eyes.

"I'm Thorin."

"I'm Laurent." Bard smiled a little. "At least that's the name I'm using now, though considering where I just came from I'll have to change it again. This is a very bad time now for our kind, someone killed a group of children and a clergyman and we need to contain them, help them stay hidden. Do you know of them?"

Thorin was silent, looking away into the distance for a minute.

Bard was shocked as a fist connected with his face, sending him sprawling to the forest floor and filling his mouth with leaves. His head spun for a second as he heard Thorin approach him.

"I killed those children....I killed that pastor."

"So you're the one the mobs are looking for!" Bard exclaimed, getting up onto his feet. "You're the one all these innocents are dying for. You have to hide, they will eventually find you and burn you..."

"I couldn't help myself and my horrid need." Thorin spat and grimaced before turning back to Bard. "You're one of the elders I was told about by the savages who turned me...I've heard about you during the night, you're one of the leaders of a coven. You want me to join you."

Thorin draws his coat around him tighter despite the lack of a chill. "I won't join a group of bloodsucking mongrels. I make my own life, my own way, and my own friends. I don't run by the beat of anyone's drum but my own.”

With that, Thorin disappeared, leaving Bard alone. He sighed, fearing this vampire might be a problem. Still, if a vampire didn't feed, there would be no room for accidents, so he'd take that as a small blessing. He'll have to watch Thorin carefully. In the coven or not, a vampire like him could mean the end of all of them.

He fed and realized why Thorin disliked the act. He almost spat the blood he drank from a bird out, it tasted so vile.

He traveled to London for a proper meal among the vagrants Thorin preyed upon not days before.

\---------

"Where is he, Elrond? We know you housed the priest here. Don't think we haven't seen him around your home. He put an assassin on our trail and now you're going to defend him? You're a filthy double agent."

Elrond knew his neutrality would be tested one day. "I help whoever is in need, you know that."

"You'll help us find him, then, and help your wife, too, I imagine."

He startles as Celebrian yelps, struggling against strong arms. The brute of a vampire with a mohawk smiles. "Found her hiding in the kitchen."

"Good. The children are upstairs, if you can-"

"Don't bring them into this." Elrond growls and the look in his interrogator's eyes says he won't. "They know nothing; I haven't told them a thing."

"Oh, very well. I won't hurt your family. Now where did he go?"

"I don't know...and I don't take kindly to threats. It's not as if you'll bleed us dry." he responds dryly, turning his expression into one of grim stoicism. "He left two days ago. You missed him. He was drunk; he probably wandered into town or the surrounding forest. He stole money from me, which means he probably intends to go back to London. I know nothing else."

"In which direction did he travel?"

"I didn't see."

Boot heels click on the hardwood flooring as they circle around to Celebrian, stilling her muted struggles with a hand on her throat. "I think you saw."

"I didn't see him leave; it was in the middle of the night!" Elrond begins to lunge but he’s held back by two more strong men, though less outwardly so. One has hair in the shape of a starfish, while the other is older and has his hair intricately braided. Both have iron grips. "I was asleep! I assume that's something you've forgotten how to do..."

The heels turn, boots pointing towards Elrond as they slowly approach. "You saw him, Elrond, and I'll forgive you for your insolence. In fact, I'm sure you know where he is. I'll give you a final chance."

Elrond is silent, his eyes flitting shortly to his wife who shakes her head and back, trembling. Both of them care about Thranduil too much to allow their assailants to hurt him. Distant friend he may be, he's still worthy of as much protection as the vampires they help. He doesn't deserve death or worse.

"I don't know, Thorin."

He sighs, tying his hair back and sliding a knife from a sheath in his boot. "Fine. You give me no choice. If you're going to hide that priest from me, then I suppose there's nothing for it…"

A sluggish wave of blood is loosed from the gash that splits Celebrian’s neck in two. Her shriek is cut off midway and turns into gurgles and choked whines.

Before he can shout obscenities or protests, he's thrown off-kilter by a slap to the face that sends him skidding to the floor. Celebrian lay beside him, still conscious but barely so. Elrond uses one of his hands to cup her face gingerly as Thorin's deep rumble echoes in his ears along with his pulse.

"I don't feed on humans but I can still make them bleed. Tell me."

Elrond looks down at Celebrian, her breathing shallow and slowed. He has to get her medical attention soon. He also knows it's too late. "...h-he went back to London. He has no housing; I don't know where you'll find him, that's all I know!"

A grin and a flash of white, pointed teeth stained red are all Elrond sees before they vanish. He kneels beside Celebrian and listens for her heartbeat, hoping it to be there. There is none. His heart shatters along with the last of his control, tears streaking his cheeks as his trembling form hunches over into himself. He hears a tiny whine, head moving sharply towards the source of the sound.

The children stand at the top of the stairs, woken up and curious by the yelling. Estel's in Arwen's arms, whimpering pitifully and rubbing his eyes with his still-pudgy fists.

"Go back to bed...all of you." Elrond tells them, his voice wavering.

They don't protest. Elladan and Elrohir usher their youngest siblings back to their rooms before hearing a muffled sob, returning downstairs. The twins see their mother silent and still, their father cradling her body in his arms. As he begins to tell them to leave, they sit beside him.

"Call the hospital, tell them we need an ambulance." Elrond mutters after a couple of moments. He's still numb as he wraps her in her favorite blanket gingerly, mechanical movements kicking in as he prepares her body for the ambulance.

The boys, barely seventeen, can do nothing but nod, Elrohir pulling out his cell phone. They live so far away, it takes an hour before the ambulance arrives. Elrond leaves the twins in charge and rides with them.

The EMTs try to comfort him but he's unable to hear any of it. The blood pounds in his ears too loudly, a reminder of what he is.

\-----

City alleys are too scummy for Thranduil to consider. His appearance would lead to a certain attack. He decides to hide in a park, refusing to visit shelters where he likely volunteered beforehand. As Elrond pointed out, his pride is still too near and dear to him. He uses some of his stolen money to buy wine, of course, and spends the first night back in London drinking and singing songs on a bench quietly. The next few days he barely remembers while he drinks his mind away, moving from park to park. He knows, on some level, that this is his rock bottom. Even his heroin problems before didn’t compare to this.

Maybe he’s lived his whole life at rock bottom.

Each night brings him more and more frustration. People try to steal his suitcase. One night the temperatures were so low he was convinced his leg would drop off from how much pain he felt. After all, he’d ran out of medication weeks ago. He had contracted a cold and now here he lay, unable to do much but drink because of how his head aches whenever he moves it and how his leg screams in protest. It’s driving him to weep, even, and his vision blurs as much from wine as it does from tears. He wants to cry out but there are homes around and he’s not about to alert someone to his infirmity.

He shoves the wine bottle’s opening into his mouth and drinks to silence the pain and himself.

A sound from a nearby hedge gets his attention, albeit blearily. It’s not the sound of a stray cat, but of rustling made by something bigger. Thranduil rises from his supine state, his head spinning and throbbing in a way that makes him immediately lean over and retch. The pain in his leg exacerbates things as he wipes his mouth, looking around for the source of the sound. His body is on fire with how feverish it is, making his skin sensitized against the cold wind. Another hedge rustles and his anxiety spikes. Whatever it is doesn’t want to be seen and Thranduil knows there’s only one reason for that. He’s in no condition to put up a fight.

The impact to his head isn’t a surprise, Thranduil thinks as he topples to the ground, his consciousness wavering as his skull cracks against the pavement, nor is the impact of his own cane handle being bashed into his skull.

That does knock him out cold.

\-----

He wakes tied to a chair, head pounding dangerously and a trickle of blood pouring sluggishly from his temple. He feels his lungs churn for air, his breathing wheezy and hacking as it turns into a round of coughing. The room is dark until he realizes that he cannot see. There is no cloth over his head, so why can't he see? That alone strikes a note of fear into him.

Footsteps approach and Thranduil summons all of the defensiveness he can while in one of the most compromised positions possible. Still, the footsteps aren’t those of flighty vampires but of a human, light on their uncovered feet.

“Shh...easy now, I’m not going to hurt you. I can’t promise the others won’t, but I have no intention of laying a finger on you.”

“Wh…” Thranduil tries his voice and stutters. “Who are you...why are you...you…”

“Don’t worry, we’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other.” the voice continues. The soothing tone to it makes Thranduil relax a fraction.

A spoon is held to his lips, not silver but plastic. “Here, some Robitussin to help that cough. It’s not pleasant but it can’t be much worse than what I found you drinking. Couldn’t have been much more than rubbing alcohol, really.”

A foul-tasting liquid is smeared on his lips. Thranduil is torn between taking the fluid that would ease his breathing for a time and pushing it away. As he knocks the spoon away with his cheek like a petulant infant, the voice tuts and sighs.

“To be expected, I suppose. Are you hungry? You look like you haven’t eaten in days.”

Truth be told, he’s been living on liquid calories for at least a week until now, when he’s sober and hungover. His stomach flips at the mention of food, though, and nausea sets in. “Can’t eat...feel sick…”

“Understandable. Some weak broth, then, I think. Let’s start with that, but not right now.”

Scraping of wood on stone and then a chair is in front of his, seemingly. “Right now I just want to talk. I’m not going to hurt you even though the others might...I just want to meet the man who put a hit out on my husband. That’s kind of rude, honestly, he hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“Your husband...I...what…?” Thranduil squints, no light affecting his hangover but his head throbbing and an answering throb from his leg. “I didn’t...you’re a human…”

“And my husband is Thorin Oakenshield. It’s complicated but not something we need to discuss right now. Frankly, I’d say I understand your job, even if I don’t agree with it. Vampires are an acquired taste, to use an unfortunate turn of phrase.”

Thranduil instinctively cringes. “Why can’t I see…?”

“Oh dear…” his captor tuts again. “ Thorin, he...he didn’t want you seeing his home. What I didn’t agree with is...he…”

He can hear fidgeting.

“He blinded you, Thranduil. To keep his home a secret. I-I don’t know how, but he said it’s permanent and I’m...I’m so sorry...”

The last part became static to Thranduil’s ears. Blinded. He can’t see and won’t ever be able to again. Suddenly, despite his weak state, a surge of rage builds in him and he starts thrashing in the chair.

“Let me go…” he growls.

“I’m sorry, I can’t.” his captor sighs.

Thranduil writhes more and even tips his chair over in the process, his head slamming against the stone floor, making his ears ring and his stomach heave. The air leaves his lungs as well as whatever wine still sits in it leaves his stomach, leaving him coughing and hacking. The visitor stands near the door in fear and exasperation. He can sense the small presence retreat.

“I’ll kill you along with those bloodsuckers.” Thranduil spits, bile bitter on his tongue.

“I don't think you will, you'll find the lines between human and vampire association can get pretty blurry.” the voice seems to change. “I’ll get Kili to clean this up for you. He’s to be punished for his incidents.”

As his captor leaves, Thranduil almost wants him back. Certainly, when the vampire comes in to clean up the mess, Thranduil tries to spit in his direction, which only gains him a chuckle in return.

“You’re pathetic without your cane. Besides, Uncle’s got plans for you.” Kili sneers. “Big plans.”

“Let him try.” Thranduil tries to right himself even while tied to the chair but he gets a foot placed on his head.

“No, you’re staying there. I want to hurt you so much, but Uncle forbids it. Such a shame…at least I can keep you quiet for a time.”

A swift kick to his head makes Thranduil know no more.

\--------

The next time he comes to, Thranduil notices he is free from the chair. He’s also cold, the still air chilling him to the bone as the winter air seeps into the room. More footsteps approach and he kicks himself back to the wall as best he can with his hands tied behind his back, crying out at the pain in his leg.

“Oh, dear...do you need medicine?”

Thranduil’s head swivels up to hear the voice, his blood chilling. Thorin stands above him, he’s completely at the vampire’s mercy...and there will be none, of course.

“Not from you…” Thranduil gathers what saliva he has left and spits. Another round of chuckling tells him he’s unsuccessful. “I want the human back.”

“Which one? I do have a few contacts, if I were to be persuaded...I think my friend Elrond will do just about anything I desire at this point.”

Thranduil’s eyes widen. He cannot be… “You lie. Elrond doesn’t treat with vampires.”

“Oh, how little you know of your former host, Thranduil. He has so many vampire connections that he doesn’t know how he keeps up with them.” The sounds of heels click on the stone floor as he's circled. “He’s been working for us ever since he began his time in the military, and he knew of us even before that. We all know it even if he refuses to talk, but we think he wants to become one of us. Not sure why, it's a terrible curse, this immortality.”

Thranduil starts to shake with rage and, loathe as he is to admit it, fear. “Silence. I’ll hear no more of this rabble. Elrond would never do any of this.”

“Hm, suit yourself. There’s a boy who looks just like you in his home, I’m sure he won’t be choosy when he’s turned. New ones always feed on the closest targets…”

All color drains from Thranduil’s face. His rage is now replaced with terror, struggling in the bonds, his voice barely hiding desperation even with the threatening tone. “Don’t hurt him, I swear to god…”

A yelp as he’s lifted from the floor by his hair and set upright, a hand gentle on his chin even if it’s cold to the touch. “Relax, we won’t hurt him...we have his superior right here. Believe me, we’re going to hurt you in his place. You will be marred, Thranduil, twisted beyond recognition and left for the dogs.”

A slap sends Thranduil to the floor yet again, the motion without visuals causing his stomach to lurch. If he weren’t empty, he would be sick right about now. A booted foot comes down hard on his side, an audible crack emanating throughout the room. Thranduil screams. His fingers scrabble at the stone floor for purchase before feeling them break beneath boot heels.

“I will crush you, put you in your place below my heel and make you beg.”

Thranduil feels himself lift into the air and into a sitting position against the wall. His attention flags as he fights to stay awake. “I...I can't see…”

“Oh dear...I suppose the doctor will have to make a house call.” The sneer in Thorin’s voice is evident. “I do wish to have some fun with you before we part, though.”

A hand tugs at his hair, turning his face upwards.

“You're too pretty for the cloth, after all.”

\-----

Thranduil’s curled in the corner of the room, shaking, when the door opens again. The cold air bites at his exposed skin. This time there is nothing but terror in his reaction as he tries to crawl even further in the corner. The footsteps aren't boots, though, a small squeak in each step as they hurry towards him. They stop a careful ways away from him, mercifully enough. An audible gasp rings through the air and then mingles with his own labored breathing.

“Don't touch me…” he whispers, his voice given out from his prior treatment.

“Alright.” a familiar voice sounds. “I won’t touch you just yet, but I’ll need to so I can help you. It seems he’s already used the acid…”

Thranduil relaxes a fraction, knowing it isn’t one of the vampires, though his tremors don’t cease at all. He’s gathered that his vision has been chemically altered by now. “Leave, Elrond, before they kill you. You shouldn’t be here.”

“Thorin called me, Thranduil.” Elrond sighs. “I have...a neutral agreement with him and other clans.”

Thranduil starts to panic, his thoughts frantic and disjointed. “Wait…neutral agreement? That means…and you…oh, Legolas…”

“Thranduil, Legolas knows nothing of them and he is safe.” Elrond replies in protest. “It’s not what you think, it’s…”

“You’re no better than the other human I encountered.” Thranduil growls, his reality shattering by the second. Has no one ever been on his side this entire time? “I’ll kill you.”

“You wouldn’t do that, Thranduil. Even if you didn’t care about me as a friend, you would not harm another human being.”

The bitch of it is that Elrond’s right, no matter how wrong he actually is, and his anger quickly deflates into a smoldering ember. 

He’s pulled into a carefully measured, very ginger hug. The hands on him are warm and comforting...at one time he might have wished to have held them if Elrond hadn’t married that woman. His rage dissipates further as the hands rub his back tenderly. Tears spring to his eyes and he pulls away.

“Why, Elrond? Why work with these animals?” Thranduil’s voice is weak, hoarse, and it makes the questioning sound more pitiful than it needs to sound.

“Because I have lost someone dear to me, many in fact, and they were all taken by them.”

“And yet you stay?” Thranduil realizes his nakedness and tries to cover his shame.

“Because I have a plan to join them.”

Thranduil had hoped that Thorin’s words were false. They were not. “Then I cannot consider you a friend of mine anymore.”

“Thranduil, you have no one else! Look at where you are, what’s happened-”

Panic sets in as Thranduil freezes, hearing the familiar boot steps lead up to his door. Thorin stops at the door frame, mercifully.

“You’re not leaving here alive, Thranduil. I figured I’d give Elrond another subject to study; he loves learning about the turning process, after all. It’s always good to have a medical professional around for these sorts of things, you know.”

Elrond turns. “He’s hurt, Thorin, you can’t turn him like this….”

“Only his most debilitating wounds and what he already has will stay with him.” Thorin replies with indifference. “He might be as blind and lame as a newborn kitten but all the better, in my opinion.”

“I can’t believe you, Thorin, doing this over an assassin on your tail? Hasn’t that happened before?” Elrond’s arms wrap around Thranduil’s form protectively.

Thranduil struggles to get oxygen, eyes already wide and tear-filled and just now realizing his fate.

No…

“No one has ever dared to challenge me and now this faithless sprite tries? I’m not going to take this lying down. Move away from him, Elrond. Gain the knowledge you seek….you’ve never seen a person turn, have you?”

A pause. “...no.”

Thranduil doesn’t feel safe with Elrond here either.

“Then let me show you.”

As he tries to scramble away on all fours, his breath coming in short, panicky bursts, a boot on his back stills him. “No, no, there’s no use trying to escape it...besides, you’re not crawling towards the door, so I don’t know where you’re going at all.”

“Elrond, stop this!” Thranduil cries, tears streaking his cheeks.

The pauses he hears from his former friend don’t give him hope. “Celebrian is dead, Thranduil, after you came into my home and stole valuables and money from me when I offered you free housing.”

“You can’t! I-I trusted you!”

“I know, Thranduil, and you lost mine.”

Thranduil is grabbed by the throat, trying to squirm out of the grip. Fear makes him freeze as the points of teeth too sharp press into his neck.

“I’m sorry, Thranduil, but this is a way you can repay me.” Elrond’s voice is pained. He clearly doesn’t want this but Thranduil knows he’s too wracked with grief to think logically. “Thorin, you may begin.”

Fangs sink in and Thranduil wails a lament that touches no one save for a stifled sob he can hear from Elrond.

The turning process starts as soon as the fangs leave his neck. Thranduil feels cold seeping into his body as he’s tossed to the floor, his limbs numb and insensate. He barely feels a thing aside from a slight burning sensation, as if he were frostbitten. Elrond kneels near him, his breathing heavy as if he were trying to hold back tears. Thranduil has no care for him now, his body numb and his mind racing. Time seems to shift and melt, turning into something of an afterthought rather than something important. Thranduil cannot see and therefore he has no sense of time in this room. He feels his leg start to ache after a time, though, as well as the rest of him. It starts out small but turns into a pain that takes over his entire form.

The sound he makes is a pitiful whine before his body starts to seize.

Hands gentle with practice turn him onto his side but there’s nothing in him to warrant the movement. Words equally gentle turn into white noise as the pain of his organ systems shutting down takes over. All he can utter are screams and whines. He can vaguely sense Elrond rubbing his shoulder amid the blistering heat but he wants nothing more than to kill the man for wanting this. He can’t tell if it’s been two hours or two days as the pain continues, burning him from the inside out and branding him with the shame of what he’s to become. Elrond eventually lays down next to him and sleeps but Thranduil gets no such pleasure, trying to stifle his cries of anguish. Whatever anger he felt is now gone, replaced by desperation. He starts chanting in broken and stuttered Latin, turning to his last salvation. He wishes Bard could burn for all that he’s done, being involved in his life and ruining it.

Eventually unconsciousness takes him, and in that hell he finds no respite either. He hears muffled shouting as he slips under, body and mind utterly exhausted.

\-----

Thranduil was born at 2:54 AM on December 15th, though no one remembers that fact now, not even Thranduil himself. His pulse stops at 11:37 AM on December 16th forty-two years later.

Elrond writes this down on his steno pad, which he’s been using for his notes. He’s the only medical personnel present. He doesn’t have to, as no death certificate will be made, but it’s become a habit and one of respect at that. He quietly pulls down Thranduil’s eyelids and grits his teeth.

He’s lost another person in his life. One more down, several to go.

\-----

_"Thranduil!"_

_Thranduil runs as fast as his legs will take him, literally chasing smoke as the vampires in front of him disappear. Litho's running beside him and speeds up to try to tackle one of them. Weaving through trees is difficult but weaving through sharp, jagged columns of rock in the mountains they found this coven in, this is nigh on impossible. He feels his skin tear through his sleeves as his arms are caught continuously on pieces of rock, being slowed down by the interruptions. Litho runs without fail through the rocks, chasing the coven with her natural ease, vaulting boulders without so much as a blink of an eye._

_"Litho, catch!" He throws a silver crucifix pendant to her, knowing she lost the one he gave her on her last mission. "Protect yourself!"_

_"I know what I'm doing, Thranduil! Fall back, you're no longer of use here!" Litho yells back. "Go back to our rally point, meet with the others, and tell them I'm-!” __

_Her sentence is cut off by a shriek as he sees her fall over rocks he swears weren't there a minute ago. A flock of bats, one Thranduil knows all too well, shrouds Litho in darkness. He tries to lunge for her but ends up with his face down in dirt and grit, bleeding. A searing pain wracks his frame, radiating from his thigh. As he cries out, the source of the assault shows her gaunt, macabre, childlike face._

_“You taste delicious but there’s too much muscle, you scrawny weakling!” she cackles. “Not enough blood…”_

_When he looks up, she's gone. He tries to stand and yelps, hobbling over to the ledge._

_Other hunters find him and hold him back and he's sure he's crying, blood and tears mixing on his face. Screaming he hears in the distance before he realizes that it's his own voice. He's numb all over; he can't feel anything but his heart ripping in two._

_Worthless... he tells himself at the funeral, dressed in a black suit as Legolas stands by his side as tall as he can for a four year old. You're worthless..._

_He hears his father's harsh voice in his ears, the self-deprecation turning into a low rumble that signals fear._

_"You're worthless!"_

_The hand that connects with his face throws him backwards into a wall, his head buzzing. He came home with a boy under his father's nose. It had been stupid but neither set of parents were all too happy to oblige their respective child's sexuality. He thought Father wouldn't be home for hours._

_Though numb, the dull impact of a belt keeps pounding into his skin and he flinches away as the impacts come harder and faster down upon his body. Penance, this is, for being what he shouldn't be is what he's told. Each blow makes him weaker but he must stand for each lest the beating become worse._

_His own voice echoes in his ears, the cries he makes and the apologies he spouts more than cries. He feels a sensation of warmth, likely the redness of his back, arms, and chest, which turns into a stinging and then a burning. His vision turns red as the burning starts to make him scream, his skin flayed off and now his muscle tearing away from bone. He finds he can't move, can only watch as this searing pain tears his body apart. He collapses, sniveling and snotting._

_Through the redness, Thranduil can see his father standing over him, imposing and intimidating._

_"You're a monster, Thranduil. You’re going to hell."_

_His eyes widen in fear as his father, Thorin’s face superimposed on his body, lifts his boot and swiftly brings it down upon his skull. He knows nothing else but the respite of darkness._

\-----

At 12:06 PM on December 20th, Thranduil awakens to an enticing smell beside him.

\-----

Really, he should be happy about this. He's free but something doesn't feel right. Thranduil hasn’t shown himself in a week or two, which is highly unusual. Bard sighs as he sips a cup of weak jasmine tea at his desk, scowling at the figures on his screen, the tens of thousands of pounds added just that morning to an Iranian oil exec’s account.

The feeling of wrongness intensifies throughout the day. Never has he had a hunter’s unfinished business pause midway. Hunters don't just disappear...unless they do.

His cell phone rings. Bard sighs and rubs his face as he picks it up.

“Hello?”

_“It's me, Bard. We have a problem.”_

Well damn, he thinks. There goes the rest of my day.

“What do you need, Elrond?” he sighs, typing out documents for his next meeting. “I'm rather busy at the moment.”

_“It's important. Meet me at the ferry at Ullapool. We have a new one and he's not acclimating well.”_

“What?” Bard sets down his pen and leans back in his office chair. “I can't keep running around for each troublemaker, you know. I might be one of the elders but I'm not able to be everywhere at once. I’m surprised you’re not at the hospital right now.”

_“I was…asked to provide a house call. He asked for you by name when he was conscious but now he’s awake after four days. Let’s say he reacted rather...violently, even for a vampire.”_ Elrond presses. Bard realizes his breath is short and panicked. _“He wants to see you but we've had to restrain him. I have superficial injuries and potentially a broken wrist.”_

“Who is it?”

_“Thranduil. He's been turned.”_

That feeling Bard had vanishes only to be replaced by a mix of dread and exasperation. “Oh, hells...I’ll be over in an hour, no more.”

_“Thank you, Bard.”_ His tone makes Bard think he’s doing Elrond a great service. _“I-I can’t believe I allowed Thorin to turn him…”_

That changes things. Dread and exasperation give way to anger. Bard doesn’t get angry over much anymore.

“We’ll talk about this later.” Bard’s tone turns dangerous. “Goodbye.”

Before the other can respond, Bard ends the call and promptly rests his forehead none too gently on his desk. He has to refrain from punching a hole in the wall, so he shreds the papers on his desk in the meantime.

An Iranian oil executive means nothing to him. When Thranduil started meaning something to him, he’s not sure. Now he can't remember a time when he didn't care.

\-----

Bard finds himself appearing in an alleyway near the ferry exactly thirty-eight minutes later. Elrond waits on one of the benches overlooking the sea with a vague distance in his expression. Once noticing his associate, though, the man stands, nodding. His hand is in a temporary brace, first aid materials often kept at the colony they’re visiting for his use. A half-hour later, they stand outside of a small building, little more than a large house, with an ornate front door. Pressing the intercom button, the door unlocks.

_"You may enter."_ A mechanical, yet higher-pitched voice grants Bard the necessary permission as he steps over the threshold, Elrond behind him. The cameras around the intercom are disabled but the island rarely gets human visitors, but the two of them are known to the colony. Elrond’s presence is entirely expected, in fact.

An advisor tells Bard that the leader wishes to stay out of extraneous affairs between clans. He’s willing to assist Bard where he needs it in regards to Thranduil but that’s it. He's led to an office where a child vampire with shoulder length, raven black hair cut into a bob sits in an office chair upon a stack of books. He's writing by hand in delicate, looping cursive, as technology is limited in such a remote area. He looks up as the door opens and gives a warm smile.

"Ah, Bard, how nice to see you again. It’s been a while. Brother, it’s not been so long but welcome all the same. I do apologize for not being able to assist with Thranduil more often, there’s so much paperwork…”

“It’s...quite alright, Elros, though I do think more study needs to be done on reanimation timing on your end.” Elrond replies more warmly than Bard has ever heard him, holding up his braced hand. “I could have easily been bitten.”

Elrond says the last part in a way that Bard reads as a positive thing.

Elros turned as a child, captured and kidnapped by a clan not only frenzied with bloodlust but also with greed, preying specifically on wealthy families. The disappearance was all over the news in 1973, a wealthy shipman and his wife plus their son. Evidently, the papers never mentioned the other son who now hugs his brother awkwardly both due to his height and injured hand. The resemblance is striking even with the age discrepancy and Bard realizes they must have been identical twins.

“It’s alright, Elrond, I’ll compensate you for any medical care you need.” Elros smiles and pats his hip in lieu of his shoulder.

Elrond snorts. “Any medical care I need? Tell that to my supervisor, I can’t exactly practice with a brace on my hand. I have children to feed, you know.”

Bard clears his throat, perhaps a little too eagerly, for the two look at him with quizzical expressions that are just eerily similar enough to put Bard on edge.

“We have matters to attend to, gentlemen.” Bard reminds them, smiling to lighten his tone. “How long has Thranduil been awake?”

The three sit down, Elros climbing onto his chair. “Thranduil has been awake only an hour and a half. Elrond was present at his reanimation and subsequently got into a grapple hold. Luckily, he’s had training to fight and to handle such a situation, so he was able to get out of the room without being bitten. His hand was crushed in the door trying to leave, though.”

Elrond makes an indignant noise. “Which wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t writing your fiction. What pseudonym do you use now, T.M. Numenoré?”

“Hush. We have him in isolation and we’re not sure what to do with him. He doesn’t want to drink from anyone here, per the custom of those here in my colony.” Elros sighs. “It’s clear he wishes to kill himself. He won’t be successful in the room, but I fear for him once he’s let go. That’s where you come in, Bard.”

_Oh, hells._

“So you want me to babysit him once he’s no longer a danger to humans to keep him from being a danger to himself? I’m not his keeper. He wanted to kill me after all.” Bard crosses his arms. “You’re going to have to do a lot of convincing so you might as well start now.”

“Bard, he can’t see. His leg is still injured and likely always will be. We just want you to make sure he can adjust back into the regular world on his own. Help him find work, socialize, that sort of thing. Not babysitting, just a guide. You’re one of the oldest vampires, who better to do so?”

“Besides, he’ll no longer listen to me.” Elrond adds. “I would help him but I suppose...my vindictiveness has cost me his trust.”

Elros frowns. “With both an elder and your brother here, we both agree that your action...or rather, inaction for the sake of medical knowledge was incredibly unethical and immoral. I understand you feared retribution from Thorin Oakenshield and are human but you have contacts that could have intervened on your behalf. Instead you decided to let Thranduil be turned against his wishes with the promise of repayment.”

Elrond casts his gaze to the floor, head in hands, and Bard can tell that the man regrets the choice. He likely regretted it right after choosing. He will never understand how it feels to be a double agent, working for multiple sides of the living and undead world, all for the sake of his children. Elros seems to understand this and hops down from his chair, putting a small hand on his shoulder. Bard’s not sure if he should stay or leave at this point. Traditionally an elder is present at every sentencing but this one just seems too personal, and he’ll give them space. He stands and looks at the door.

“You two talk about the sentencing, I’ll check on Thranduil.”

The two nod and as Bard leaves, Elros climbs into the chair that Bard had vacated.

“I know you feared for your life, Elrond, I know all too well. You’ve panicked before. You ran faster than I did, you left me behind...and this was no different. You wanted to survive and I understand.” A small, choked sound breaks the air and Elros wraps his arms around his brother’s shoulder. “It’s alright, I don’t blame you, you blame yourself enough already. This time, I’ll be lenient with you because you were coerced into inaction. I do not want you to make this mistake a third time, do you understand?”

Elrond looks up and nods. Though no tears are on his cheeks, something about his expression looks broken, defeated, that’s mirrored in his voice. “I understand.”

Elros’ expression hardens as much as it can for such a childish face. “Considering our people cannot be given justice in court, as the leader of the colony I have to make a decision. Mine is that you are not welcome to visit my colony for at least a year after this meeting, more if our agreements are broken. If we are to speak, it will be in your home or over the phone, or in a neutral, human territory such as your hospital. In addition, Legolas will live in another safe, neutral location. I would suggest Celebrian’s parents, if possible. I know they’re supporting you right now, they would do anything for you, from what you’ve told me.”

“Celeborn…”

“He won’t know of me, Elrond. You’ve made sure of that. Legolas doesn’t know me either. He won’t be a problem unless you say something to him.”

Elros pauses and continues when he receives no response, only a shake of Elrond’s head.

“You will also help with Thranduil’s rehabilitation outside of the colony until or unless he wants you to stop. In that event, you will assist in the outside rehabilitation of other new ones, though I will assure that they are no threat to you before putting them in your guidance. This will also be done for a year. Your blood donations and shipments will be delivered via a trusted ally.”

Elros’ hands slide into Elrond’s. “You remember that I will not give you what you seek until your children are grown. I see what you’re doing to yourself. You lost a connection to mortality so you willingly chose to lose another to get to your goal. We’ve lived with vampire guardians before. You can’t subject Estel to that.”

“No.” Elrond breaks their connection and runs fingers through his hair. “Bard’s children are happy, though, and he makes it work...”

“That’s because he was turned in the 1400’s. He’s had centuries to be around humans. Maglor and Maedhros were only a matter of decades and you would be even less.”

Elrond frowns, the newer lines in his face deepening. Elros smooths them away. “Soon enough, Elrond. The time will come. Gil-Galad waits for you, he always has, and he knows you hurt right now anyway. You need to be patient, that’s the first thing about vampirism that you need to learn. Give yourself time to heal because when you’re a vampire, that process can be indefinite.”

\-----

Bard approaches the isolation rooms. The colony has a special building for the newly turned, soundproofed to silence noise from those still in the process. Right now there are only three occupied rooms, the two others still in their deceased slumber. The guard at the front door muses that they’ll never wake, as both have been asleep for months. Bard assures that they will in time, as he’s seen vampires wake up to a year after they become turned.

Now, however, he approaches the room with sound coming through the walls. Through the viewing window, he sees Thranduil crawl around the room on all fours before finding his bed and climbing onto it, chanting loudly in Latin. It’s a pitiful sight, really. Knocking on the door pauses the frenzied chanting, eyes of pure black staring at the door.

“I cannot smell you.” Thranduil says through the door.

“I am not a human.” Bard replies in kind. “May I come in?”

“You were told to come here, so I don’t see why not.”

Bard unlocks the door, carefully entering the sparse room. Blood covers the walls and floor, obviously that of Thranduil's own, and he loathes staining his shoes or trouser legs with it. “I wanted to come here, you asked for me.”

“I'm hungry, Bard. I know you know the feeling, I'm hungry and yet I never wanted this...” Pale arms sliced with cuts and gashes accompany a body that practically vibrates with need.

“No, no one does.” Bard knows this is a lie by default, Elrond wishes for nothing more than the immortality of vampirism. “Those should heal soon. They've already stopped bleeding.”

“They didn't hurt me. They only made me crave more...”

“What you do have does nothing. It's vile and most would say vampire blood as a whole is inedible but the clan here on this island drink it anyway.” Bard explains. “They don't want to touch humans.”

“...I want human blood.” Thranduil grounds out, his voice low and raspy.

“We can get you some. Elrond-”

“Do not speak of him to me!” Thranduil hops up off his bed and flashes his teeth. “I should drink from him, I wanted to, but he got away from me, that wretched, traitorous-!”

Bard puts his hands on Thranduil's shoulders. “Calm. He's being punished for what he didn't do to help you by the leader of the clan.”

Thranduil's ire lessens, judging by the minute tensing of Thranduil's shoulders becoming less noticeable. Bard notes that his breathing hasn't changed, but that's expected from someone newly turned. The body is now adjusting to being inert and it's a human trait to keep breathing even without it being necessary, sometimes to the point of assumed hyperventilation.

“I don't want this...every sound is so loud, so thunderous...” Thranduil laments.

Bard realizes that without his sight, Thranduil's other heightened senses would take over. His smell, his touch, and most importantly his hearing would now be so overwhelming even in this isolation room alone. Returning to human life will be much more difficult...and that's why he’s the one to help Thranduil readjust. He has a successful career, home, children, all that a normal human would have.

“I can have a sign put on the door to keep quiet if that helps. It should become less stressful as you adapt.” Bard pats his shoulder gently. “This is just the first week or so.”

“I want blood, Bard.” Hands grab at his coat lapels, curled impossibly tightly into the fabric. Thranduil's body presses into his, desperation evident in his tone. “I need it. Get it for me.”

Bard thinks for a moment. “Not immediately, but within hours. How's that?”

Thranduil nods and lets go of his coat. “I will hold you to your word.”

Bard leaves him be after a while longer. Their chat is now nonexistent, seeing as Thranduil's far too in need to make sense and Bard knows his life’s turned upside down. He makes his way back to Elros' office to finalize the sentencing and hears shouting through the door. He can’t help but listen as he waits for a good moment to interrupt.

“I don't want your help! It's not as if you're still letting me here on this island anymore, you barely ever leave...how can you help if you’re cloistered here?”

“You're clearly becoming undone. Have you spoken with your children in the past day or two or have they been taking care of themselves? Elladan and Elrohir are too young to play the parents to the others. You're barely eating or sleeping...even if I wanted to help you with what you want you're in no physical or emotional state to do it.”

“If he can do it, so can I...he's blind and lame! I can be both parent and vampire...”

_That explains things…_ Bard muses.

Bard knocks and hears an exasperated “Come in!” He enters and finds the two looking identical in their surliness. Elrond glares down at his brother and Elros glares right back.

“Is this a bad time to say that we need to finalize the sentencing and enact it? I do have to get back to work.” Bard raises his eyebrows. “And I think you do as well, Elrond.”

Elrond nods, clearly unhappy. “I do. Let's make this quick.”

They write out the paperwork and have everything signed by Elrond's unintelligible signature. As soon as they’re signed, Elrond flits out the door. Bard turns to Elros, confused.

“What was that all about?”

Elros shakes his head. “He's still broken up over Celebrian. It's not been too long, after all, but I don't think he's coping well at all. You heard us; I knew you were out there.”

Elros hops up into his office chair, scooting up to his desk and sorting through papers.

“I'm frankly concerned this forced separation between us might do him more harm than good. Still, he needs to be punished.”

“I agree...but who am I to judge?” Elros knows fully well who he was in a prior, long ago life. He knows his seemingly ancient history.

“That's why you let me handle this instead, isn't it?” Elros sits back behind his desk. “You dislike meting out punishment.”

“I just prefer not to, I've done it enough in my time.” Bard acquiesces, his hands behind his back. Sometimes he remembers they're the same ones that pushed those innocents onto pikes in a vast, green field. If he were human, he would taste bitter bile in his throat at the thought. “Now if you'll excuse me, I have money to move around.”

Elros nods. More is said between them without words than is necessary. “I'll take care of Thranduil for you until he can be transferred over to you.”

\------

Thranduil slowly adjusts to his lifestyle. No sleep, no breathing, nothing to do. That last part is what drives him mad even once he's allowed out of the isolation room and into the general clan populace. He dislikes everyone here, as they're all pitying him behind his back and giving him a wide berth in person due to his reputation. It seems like new vampires don't happen every day, so they're all old and equally as condescending as he limps by them all without a cane every morning.

He keeps himself holed up in a small, noise-cancelling room meant for music in the arts building. He's almost made it his second home aside from the small apartment he has with little in it. He feels useless and terrible as he does nothing but feel the carpet beneath his feet and the walls' texture. He can't do anything now, not without his sight. He paces the small room until his leg no longer allows it, then he sits on a piano bench and does nothing. Occasionally he'll tap out a discordant tune on the keys, his days as organ player coming back, but the sound hurts his ears too much to continue.

A knock one day jars him out of his thoughts.

“The room is occupied.”

“I know it is, it's always being used nowadays.” A small, childish voice responds. “I'd like to hear what you've been working on, since you stay in here all day.”

Thranduil's not sure whether he wants to allow this child into his sphere of comfort and peace. “I haven't been working. I've been...”

“I'm sure you can come up with something, I've heard your organ performances before. I might not have been able to enter the building, but your name is quite well-known within the choral and music departments in the local parish.”

He knows he was an important person in the Catholic music world. His talent is wasted here. “I cannot play anymore. I don't know who you are but go away.”

“I'm a friend. More importantly, I'm the leader of the clan and colony, Elros. Now may I come in and speak with you?”

A sigh escapes Thranduil's lips as he opens the door. “You may come in.”

He can't see so much as feel Elros enter the room, limping over to sit at the piano again. Somehow, Elros is small. He turned as a child, then.

“It's a shame.” he blurts out.

“What?” Elros responds.

“That you were turned as a boy.” Thranduil frowns. “What sick and terrible monster could have done that to you?”

“His name is Maglor. He eventually took care of my brother and I after feeling pity for us.” Elros' voice becomes quiet. “Do not judge us even though you have been taught to do so. Vampires can have empathy and pity; we only do what we do to survive.”

Thranduil snorts. “I don't think so. How old are you anyway?”

“I'll be forty-eight next February. I might celebrate with my brother; he's in need of a day of rest and relaxation. Perhaps a spa, though he may balk at the idea at first.” A childish chuckle rings through the air. “And what about you? How old are you?”

“Somewhere around forty-two or forty-three, I never remembered my birthday.” Thranduil turns back to the keys; he's not really in the mood for small talk. Elros sits next to him on the bench.

“Play me something.” Elros goads. “I'm sure you can remember something small. I can't quite reach the keys, you see, we had a smaller piano at home for me to play on.”

Thranduil thinks and feels the keys beneath his fingers. The lacquered finish is smooth beneath his skin. Pressing one after another down he finds middle C and starts playing a small tune from one of the masses he conducted. The piano doesn't do it justice, such a small instrument for such a grandiose thing, but Elros seems to be content with his choice as he starts to hum with the repeated rhythm.

“You're doing very well. Did you ever think of playing music in your time now?” Elros asks.

He never thought about it. He figures everything is out of reach but music does seem to be something he can continue. “Perhaps. I'd like to work for the church again, but I don't know how I can without my sight and...” The fact that he's a vampire goes unsaid.

“I don't know that you can but Bard could help you out with something. It's clear you're outgrowing your time here. Perhaps you'd like to move back to London and feel needed again.”

That is everything he could ask for.

“Anything to feel less like a walking corpse.”

“I know...it's hard to ignore what reality gives us.” Elros lays a hand on Thranduil's side out of comfort. “We are dead, true, but we can thrive if given the chance. While one of my guardians burned himself long ago on a pyre, guilt-ridden by his shameful ways in past decades, the other still roams, singing sad laments in his home by the ocean. Even in his sadness and exhaustion with the world, that is what he wishes to do. He thrives even in his sadness as he shares his music with the world, recording his tracks to support himself. Perhaps you, too, can contribute to the music of the world even if you aren't the most content.”

Thranduil listens on, intrigued. Eventually he simply laughs. He's too tired with this small room to do much more. “I suppose I can propagate sacrilege easily enough. It was my notoriety after all.”

“Whatever you want to call it, it might be good for you.” Elros pats his side. “Come on, let's hear some more music. I'm sure you know a lot.”

The melodies that emanate from the room become livelier as Thranduil switches from hymnals to more elegant jazz tunes. He's not even bothered that Elros left the door open, nor when other vampires start to gather near the door to listen. This is his favorite thing, having people listen to him.

It makes him feel like a leader again.

\-----

Moving back to London is one of his worst decisions ever.

The noise assaults his ears upon arriving on the train platform, making his head spin. Elros holds his hand to keep him calm but the rush of heartbeats around him almost makes him lunge for the nearest body.

Bard is supposed to meet him here but he's not sure how he's going to know until he clicks his tongue and his vision whites out for a moment. It throws him off for a second, vertigo taking hold and only the hand on his can keep him steady from falling onto the rails. He vaguely notes that the electrified third rail would do nothing to him now but the reflex to reach out stays.

“Elros...why can I see white?”

“You what?” Elros is just as bemused.

He does it again and he can see the outline of his friend for a second, the momentary whiteout gone in favor of distinct shapes set against a black background.

“I can see...outlines. When I click my tongue.”

Elros is silent and then laughs. “Oh, Thranduil, that's sonar. You can do what bats do now, though I hope you'll forgive me for the stereotypical comparison. Our people are able to see via sonar to get around if they have no vision.”

Thranduil tries this a couple times more. He can see the outlines of trains, crowds of people, the pillar he was about to walk into. He dodges with fluid grace, leading Elros to the platform where he's to meet Bard with zeal. He can walk much easier now, weaving through the crowd.

“I-I can walk again!” he exclaims when he gets to the waiting area.

“Yes, you can.” Elros beams and this time Thranduil can see it. “You'll still need a new cane, you can't click your tongue forever, but eventually you won't need more than one or two clicks to get around an area.”

Now that the litany of auditory stimuli lessens somewhat, Thranduil can sense a discordant, dissonant sound. He realizes it's the thousands of heartbeats around him. A smell, delicious and gentle, wafts to his nose. He's so happy, he travels towards it until Elros grabs his hand and holds him back with the strength a natural child would never have.

“Thranduil, no.”

Elros growls when Thranduil tests his grip. “Do not cause a scene. I know you're not used to this but try to keep control. Focus on me. I have a specific sound, not from the heart but the brain. Try and hear my frequency.”

Thranduil realizes that the frequencies and sounds are like one big, discordant orchestra and he's being commanded to pick out one specific instrument. It's not too hard, the heartbeats sounding more like the low beat of a kick drum whereas Elros' sound is a low, constant hum, like that of a low note from an upright bass. He tries to focus on that droning sound as he searches for Bard.

“There you go.” Elros pats his hand encouragingly. “You'll get better with time, you know. It's okay.”

Thranduil doesn't realize how hard his body shakes until he tries to fumble a handkerchief out of his pocket. Covering his nose, the handkerchief mutes the scent with strong herbs, something one of the vampires in the colony suggested to him. It doesn't solve things entirely but it covers his mouth and the fangs that have shown themselves.

“Bard needs to be here soon...” he laments.

“I know. It's almost nine-thirty. I think he's in a meeting and is going to step out early.”

A couple of minutes feels like a lifetime before Bard shows up, his hair tied into a loose ponytail and his tailored suit jacket buttoned flawlessly. Thranduil only sees the outlines of all of this, nodding to him.

“I see you're late.”

Bard snorts. “I'm not at your beck and call, remember? You're not my entire life. Come on, let's head to my apartment, I've got a guest bedroom made up for you.”

Thranduil turns towards Elros. “Thank you for your assistance...”

“Not a problem.” Elros nods. “Goodbye. We should meet again at some point.”

With that, Bard leads his newest charge through the streets of London. The enormity of his situation hasn't hit Thranduil quite yet but he feels embarrassed as a hand takes his. He realizes he was veering off in the direction of a group of tourists when he clicks his tongue.

“I-I need to get out of here.” Thranduil feels his hands start to shake as he pulls at the grip on his hand. “I'm so hungry...”

Bard is silent before putting hands on his shoulders. “Alright, then, hold on.”

“Wait, what?”

Thranduil feels himself pitch forward and a sensation of falling before landing on his face, though he's not exactly sure if he's upside down or right side up. He feels an overwhelming sense of vertigo take hold and he dry heaves at the confusion of it all. Hands rub his shoulders and a buzzing in his head turns into words that come from outside of it.

“Thranduil…Thranduil, breathe.”

The absurdity of that statement makes Thranduil recover quicker, his feigned breath coming in short bursts. “What…what was that?”

“Perhaps not the best travel method for someone without the ability to see.” Bard helps Thranduil up off the floor, dusting him off. Thranduil pushes his hands away with a growl. “I'm not a child.”

“Could have fooled me.” Bard snorts. “From what Elros tells me, you don't seem to adapt well to vampire life. You were throwing temper tantrums left and right…”

“I don't like not sleeping. I don't like having to avoid sunlight.” Thranduil crosses his arms. “I don't like that I've lost everything meaningful in my life for blood and murder. Can you really begrudge me of that?”

“You've done your wallowing back in the colony.” The sound of fabric rustling means Bard is taking off his coat. Thranduil realizes they’re in his apartment. “Numenor will be glad to have you back if you like but you can't drink human blood there. I suspect you don't want to spend your time in the Outer Hebrides anyway.”

Thranduil ponders this. “And you won't just burn me at the stake?”

Bard puts his head in his hands. “I knew it...”

Thranduil approaches Bard, leaning in close. “I have devoted my life to God, Bard; I cannot live my life sacrificing all of my teachings, all of my disciplines, all of my hard work for the rest of eternity! I cannot insult Him this way, living this farce.”

“Then you'll have to do it yourself.” Bard replies coldly, pushing him away. Thranduil is glad he can no longer see unless he chooses to see, he knows Bard must be disapproving. “I'm not going to encourage suicide.”

“Elrond doesn't seem to mind, I think I might talk to him, then.” He quirks one of his brows. “Surely he could also turn a vampire into a pile of ash if he could let a human die by such cruel hands, and assisted suicide isn’t morally wrong-”

“Enough!”

Thranduil actually startles at the volume of Bard's voice, shocked into silence.

“You came here of your own free will, Thranduil, and I'm not going to keep going back and forth about a moot subject!” Bard roars. “Now that you're here I am going to help you back into real life, but you need to want to do this to begin with! You're no longer the hunter, Thranduil, put aside your pride and stand down!”

The words ring in his ears for longer than they should. He's no longer the priest, the hunter, the king that he had become. He is no one, nothing of any value. He's relegated to the night, to a life of seclusion.

Is that so much different from the nights he spent in the basement of the abbey, slinging wine down his throat and hoping to find his one perfect kill? Didn't he already live a life of nocturnal sin? Why is this so wrong when what he did was right?

There are hands on his shoulders, not forceful this time but gentle. Only belatedly does he realize that there are tears on his cheeks.

“Thranduil...are you alright?”

“No.” Thranduil shrugs out of the gentle touch, no matter how reassuring. “Leave me alone.”

He makes his way to the guest bedroom and locks the door. Here he hides, away from his shame and contrition. There is no salvation for him now.

\-----

"Are you sure about this?"

Thranduil stands at the doorway to the apartment, trepidation keeping him inside. He hasn't left the apartment yet, though he's not sure how long it's been, each day and sleepless night blending into one mass of time. Tilda holds his hand and her pulse is on his skin and in his ears. Still he knows better than to attack, Bard would surely kill him. The urge to do so flits through his mind before he reins himself in, but he bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes bitter metal. Meeting the children was less troublesome than he had first anticipated. Thranduil knew it would be hard, three humans he must live with, but Bard simply considers it a challenge he must overcome.

"Of course. Da says you need to be outside now and I want to go to the park, so let's go!"

Thranduil has little choice as the girl tugs on his hand. She's been utterly endearing this entire time, who is he to refuse?

"It's fine, I'll lead you around. Sigrid and Bain are going to meet us there when they get out of school. Da wants you to take us somewhere for dinner, he's working late because of the fishal year ending."

"Fiscal. Very well...if he says so."

They leave the apartment, though not without Thranduil's new coat and sunglasses. Not only do they hide his eyes from people but also they protect against the sunlight. A fraction of sunlight tries to peek out from behind the clouds, or so Tilda tells him. Even that little bit is enough to make his exposed skin erupt into discomfort, as if a million needles were pricking at it. Tilda guides him along and Thranduil is thankful he can no longer see the inevitable staring from onlookers. He must look ridiculous, stumbling over street curbs and bumping into passersby and having a child hold his hand and lead him slowly along like an invalid or a dog. The sonar only helps so much on such busy streets, often becoming a hindrance when hundreds of outlines surround him. He can smell each new pulse as they pass by him, tempting in their rhythms, but he cannot feed with the child here nor in daylight. They walk for an interminable amount of time before Tilda sits him down on a bench.

"Okay, you stay there, the playground is just across the sidewalk."

"I...I can see you. Somewhat. I will watch you." Thranduil admits. Her outline and her distinct smell tell him which child she is.

"Good! Maybe we can go on the swings later..."

Tilda runs off to play and Thranduil sits idly, hands balled into fists and resting in his lap. The sunshine is no longer a source of contentment and warmth so much as one of annoyance. He fidgets in his seat, particularly so when someone sits by him. It's just the outline of a small woman with a cane feeding birds but her posture leaves the back of her neck exposed. The sounds of general society blend into a mishmash of discord with the arrhythmic heartbeats of the many people around.

This is his penance now, his personal pain as the sounds become deafening to his ears. He doesn't realize the woman is trying to speak to him until she shakes his shoulder. His sunglasses hide his black eyes morphing back to pearly white.

"Are you alright, dear? You're looking a bit pale."

Thranduil shakes his head and gives her a small smile, wan as it is. "I'm ill but otherwise fine."

Her silence tells him she doesn't believe him for a second. He's not chatty, though, and eventually she leaves. Minutes another person, then another replace later her spot, until an hour passes. At least he thinks it's an hour. Two smaller outlines sit next to him next.

"Hello, Thranduil." Bain's voice rises over the din, a crack accompanying the greeting. "How...how are you?"

He doesn’t blindly delight the two eldest children of Bard’s as he does with Tilda. Bain's tone is awkward, unsure. Their exchanges are brief and usually for social propriety or necessity.

"I'm doing as well as I can. Tilda's playing on the climbing frames if you two wish to join her instead. My head aches, so I...might not be the best company."

"Well...okay." Bain replies quietly. "C'mon, Sigrid, let's go."

"No, I'm going to stay here." Sigrid sits on the bench and Thranduil can see her frame shift towards him even as Bain runs off to the playground. She doesn't fear him like Bain does, though there's a knowing apprehension. Thranduil remembers a long-gone newspaper clipping, three children the only survivors of a massive vampire attack. The oldest had shown signs of trauma. Now, he figures, Sigrid is dealing with it yet again.

"So...are you...?" The question hangs in the air unfinished but Thranduil knows what she asks. This is his first test and so far he's not killed anyone but the temptation is growing stronger.

"Yes. I'm...doing better, though. I can control myself better and Tilda thought this would be a good experience. I think she simply wanted to go to the park."

That makes Sigrid laugh, albeit nervously. "Tilda is like that. Well...you’re not going to hurt Da now, are you?"

The question wounds him a little and he's not sure why. He shrugs it off.

"I know why you ask and no, I will not. Not now, not like..."

"This."

"Yes." Thranduil sighs. Her heartbeat is loud, faster than normal but within reason. "I was taught never to question a blessing nor to spurn a gift. Your father is helping me by bringing in blood shipments, housing me when I have nowhere to go. It...might not be what the Lord wanted for me but something gave me a blessing to ease my passage into this...life."

He knows Bard isn't just doing this from the kindness of his heart. His heart might be the reason he's been so coddled. Thranduil won't say anything; he wants to deny the possibility. It would be wrong in any case, though none of his new life is at all right. Bard cannot fall in love with him and it's an incredulous thought.

"...you like Da, don't you?"

He doesn't deign to answer. That's even more incredulous.

Thranduil winces and doubles over as the sun comes out from its cloud cover and a child falls off the playground equipment. The smell of a freshly bleeding wound fills his nostrils, turning his eyes dark once more. He feels the flesh painfully peeling away from what little skin must be exposed to the light.

"Sigrid...go." His voice is gritty as he hands her his wallet. "Get you and the others dinner. I-I can't stay here."

"But Thranduil-!" Sigrid starts to protest.

"Go, now!" Thranduil orders. This time she doesn't hesitate, running to her siblings to play with them.

With that, he makes sure no outlines are within sight or looking before he disappears into a plume of smoke. He's still getting the hang of the travel, though, because he ends up not in Bard's apartment but in a nondescript forest. The vertigo doesn't hit him as badly this time, though he does stumble and fall into the undergrowth.

He flashes his fangs as the form of a rabbit comes into his view at the click of his tongue. A guttural snarl releases itself from his throat, one that surely would have torn his vocal cords if they were the mortal ones he'd had before.

The rest is a blur, but he realizes he can hunt by smell and hearing alone early on.

Thranduil returns to the apartment late that night, past one in the morning. The children are sleeping on the couch in a big pile, unaware of his return. Tilda snores and Sigrid mutters something in her sleep, but none of the three stir. The sound of some sort of animated film emanates from the TV, innocent and harmless entertainment ignored in favor of rest.

He's covered in blood, viscera, and dirt. His clothing is torn in several places and his normally neat hair is tangled and dirty. Mostly he feels shame, shame and loathing for himself and all that he is. He drained those innocent animals. What's worse is he loathes their taste, like a facsimile of what a proper meal should be. His sightless gaze drifts to the floor, fearing his fate for not being able to manage without incident. If there is one thing he's afraid of, it's failure. Enough goes with a belt at a young age can do that.

He is sated yet his satisfaction is nonexistent.

Bard arrives soon after and pauses in the doorway. Thranduil can feel his eyes on him, briefly wondering whether the look is one of shock or grave disappointment. They look utterly different, the dichotomy of the clean-cut businessman set against the perfect image of a feral vampire.

"I suppose my test didn't go well, then?"

"I...I would think not." Thranduil mutters and barely holds the fear back out of his tone. "What happens now?"

Bard sets his messenger bag down by the coat rack as well as his coat. "We try again later, that's all."

"...no punishment?"

Bard is silent for several seconds, making Thranduil wish he had never said a word. The air hangs heavy between them for several seconds before he feels himself being pulled into a hug. Instinctively he flinches back but the arms don't move. He neither relaxes nor tenses in them, not willing to accept this affectionate reassurance but too upset by the endeavour to turn it down entirely.

"Of course not. You're learning control, Thranduil, there's no wrong way to do that."

He's not sure how to parse that response. All his life control was taught through forcible loss of control, Lent and his own self-control limiting himself when someone else didn't limit him first. There's always a reaction to an action. He didn't spend the last week of every Lent on a very limited diet for nothing. Control is gained through suffering and denial.

Thranduil turns away, shifting out of the embrace. "I-I need a shower...and now you do as well."

"Do you want to go first?" Bard offers. His tone is reined in, as if he wants to say more. "I have my suits made out of easily washable materials, don't worry about that."

"Yes. I'll buy you a new one anyway."

Thranduil hears Bard's exasperated sigh as he rushes for the bathroom. “With what, Thranduil?”

Within days, he lays a new Westwood suit on Bard's bed. Bard doesn't ask how he got it. Thranduil won't say even if he does.

\-----

If Thranduil has one worry, it's Legolas. He's spent another two weeks in Bard's apartment, alternating between learning how to hunt effectively and wallowing in his lack of anything to do. Perhaps now he could be the father he couldn't be while in the abbey. He brings the topic up to Bard while he watches TV, as he himself has no use for the visual entertainment anymore.

“I don't know...stay here a while longer. You don't have a home for Legolas to go to and he's moved around enough lately. He's not with Elrond anymore.”

Thranduil snorts. “At this point I'm not worried about him hurting my son; I'm more concerned about what those devils can do if they're connected to him.”

“I know, and that's why Elrond had him moved to his mother-in-law's home. She's a human and she lives in even more isolation than Elrond. They won't be able to find him with her, Thranduil, I promise.”

Thranduil sets his sightless gaze on the floor. “I want to...see him.”

He clicks his tongue and sees Bard nod. “We can arrange that. It would be there, in Galadriel's home. But…”

“Yes?” Thranduil asks. There's always a catch.

“Galadriel's husband hates vampires. Celeborn is his name.”

Thranduil freezes, what blood that does exist in his veins feeling like ice. One of his closest friends and hunters, Celeborn is the one he hired for isolated kills, ones in the middle of nowhere that he couldn't reach. Extreme environments were Celeborn's forte, as he's an outdoorsman with a cadre of fellow hunters at his disposal. Though pacifist by nature, he doesn't kill his prey. He tortures them and, once upon a time, delivered them to the doorstep of the best hunter in the British Isles to execute.

_Now the hunter will be hunted._

“Unacceptable. We meet in public, a busy restaurant or something.” Thranduil replies flatly. “We are in danger.”

“Why?”

“Celeborn was one of my hunters. One of the most intolerant of vampires that I employed. He will undoubtedly try to harm us if we approach his home.”

Thranduil can hear Bard put his face into his hands, an exasperated groan escaping him. “You just love to make things complicated, don't you?”

At this point, Thranduil doesn't care for legitimately rising to the bait. “It's my greatest asset, don't you know?”

They work on arranging a meeting with Legolas. Thranduil implores that this meeting not reach Celeborn's ears, lest there be complications. He really hasn't had to fight yet with his new powers and while he knows the power that vampires hold, he's not sure he could command it quite as they could. They manage to reach Galadriel, who is at least tolerant if not sympathetic. She shares her husband's rather isolationist tendencies, her family having been attacked by the same clan that had once torn apart Elrond's family. The only difference is that Galadriel is the only known surviving member of her family and she isn't too keen on being in the vampire spotlight again.

_“I can have you meet with him in my home. I do not feel safe letting him go with you two.”_ Galadriel's voice over the phone holds more power than Thranduil's heard from anyone before. _“I can assure you that Celeborn will not attack you, especially not a former friend, but I cannot assure you of that fact if something happens.”_

Thranduil's about to protest when Bard cuts in. “Agreed. We'll meet you at the train station tomorrow, nine AM.”

_“Do not be late. I don't intend to linger.”_

The call cuts off and Thranduil sits back, running hands through his hair. “Well, that was a train wreck.”

“We brokered the deal, though.” Bard notes. “We may not be on neutral territory, but you can see Legolas.”

“True...”

The next night passes by slowly. Thranduil's not sure what to do with the time he has now, he's never solved that problem. He lays out on the couch, listening to the TV as some late night drama hammers into his head. Before this, he had a secret vice for trashy soap operas and drama. Now he feels it petty and simplistic but it's something to occupy his mind for a time. He turns it off around one o'clock, sighing. He paces around the apartment, thinking about this or that. What chores need to be done, what jobs he could look into. He finds an iPod around two, which turns out to be Bain's. Loud rock music blares into his ears and he has to lower the volume to near mute to listen to it. Once he would have found this music sinful, sacrilegious, but now he doesn't seem to care. The harsh tunes remind him of who he is now and he roughly pulls the earbuds out of his ears at that realization. Around three, he takes a bath, though the water neither warms nor chills his skin. He receives no pleasant sensation from the water and scented oils around him, so his respite is brief.

By four AM, he's back to pacing. Bard emerges from his bedroom, book in hand.

“Thranduil, you're not being particularly quiet...the children-”

“They sleep well enough.” Thranduil clicks his tongue and sure enough, the outlines of three sleeping children come into his view for a split second. “I am restless. I have nothing to do.”

They're both silent for a couple moments. It's an aggravation Bard understands well. “How about audiobooks? I can find them for you if you tell me what you'd like.”

He holds up his book and Thranduil mentally kicks himself. There is a countless amount of books he could read. “Perhaps. I'll formulate a list.”

He finds a piece of paper and a pen, trying to focus very hard on writing down authors and titles. The writing should be legible, if extremely disorganized, and Bard hums his approval, though it takes him time to decipher the poor penmanship.

“Alright, I can find some of these. Give me a few days.” Bard lays a hand on his shoulder. “For now, though, we should hunt before the kids wake up.”

Thranduil nods, realizing his fidgeting only hints at his growing hunger. “Yes...”

\-----

The trip to Galadriel's house is silent. She meets the both of them at the station at nine AM sharp, as promised. They travel to a secluded village in the mountains, not far from Kielder. She insists that they avoid her husband as much as possible, but as soon as they arrive, Celeborn is waiting on the front step for them.

“Thranduil, how could you?” his accusing tone bites through the air.

“I had no choice, Celeborn.” Thranduil replies, entirely genuine. “I was turned against my will.”

“You told us that if you were ever turned, you'd commit suicide. So far, that doesn't seem to be the case. How long have you been living with these animals, weeks?”

Thranduil's not sure how to respond, though his discomfort seems to be noticed. Bard steps in front of him as if he were a shield.

“We're here to see Legolas, nothing more. Allow us entrance and we will not harm you, nor the boy.”

Thranduil remembers the feeling of a doorway, empty and open, become like a brick wall without proper allowance. He waits even though every inch of his body vibrates with nervous energy. Clicking his tongue reveals Celeborn still blocking the doorway of his home.

“Celeborn...they can only give you their word. Thranduil's word was gospel to you not weeks ago. Why would it change now?” Galadriel tries to talk her husband down. “I don't think they're going to attack, I can't sense the energy in the air for one.”

Thranduil realizes she would know the feeling of an attack before it happens. There's a distinct vibration that rings through the air, silent and stifling. “I-I just want to see my son, Celeborn. That's all, nothing more.”

He can feel his former friend's eyes dart around before moving from the doorway. “Very well. You may enter. Follow me.”

They arrive in a spacious living room, though Thranduil trips over the coffee table and recovers. They're seated on the couch while Galadriel fetches Legolas, though Thranduil can hear heated arguments in the other room.

“I don't want to...”

“But they came all this way to visit, surely you could at least humor him.”

“He hasn't seen me in years! It's like he doesn't care about me or something, just his bible studies and vampires...”

Galadriel clearly hasn't told him the truth. Legolas' words stab at him like a knife, ripping his heart in two. Has it really been that long? It feels like a week since he last saw his son now.

“You were eager enough when I told you about their visit.”

“I wanted to punch him in the face. Why be a father if you're going to be absent this long? Elrond is my guardian. I want to go back to him, not this guy.”

“Legolas...he's-”

“No. He's not my father. Not anymore. No amount of gifts and meals in nice restaurants can make up for his absence. For all I care, he's dead to me.”

A hand on his shoulder makes Thranduil flinch. “Hey...are you alright?”

_Dead to me…_

_Dead…_

Thranduil stands and leaves. This whole idea is and was a mistake. Before Bard can stop him, he vanishes. He might as well be dead for all he cares. It only occurs to him when he lands in the shade on the outskirts of a clearing that he actually is. Thranduil doesn't know where he is. The sun shines brightly today, an unusual sight for England, as evidenced by the tingle of his skin. Throwing off his black coat and sunglasses, he steps out into the light. It burns, worse than anything he's ever felt. A shriek rings through the air, cutting it as his skin peels and starts to fall away.

_This is your punishment for becoming all that you are..._

_If you were turned...you'd commit suicide…_

There are hands on his skin that now shifts more to muscle. He tries to throw them off, snarling, and only partially succeeds. As he's pulled backwards towards the shade, he ferociously kicks and tries to bite, smelling blood and the human pulse throbbing in his ears.

“Thranduil, stop!”

Celeborn's voice hits him like a slap to the face. He still tries to bite but feels the cool hilt of a knife at his back.

“You know this blade.” Thranduil nods. “You know what it can do.”

He had given Celeborn the knife as a gift for joining him. The blade is sterling silver. Even in his bloodlust, Thranduil knows not to move, for it can easily be flipped around with the flick of a wrist.

“Stand down.”

Thranduil reluctantly allows himself to be drawn backwards into the shadow, where he can feel his skin start to knit back together. His voice is not much more than a hoarse whisper. “You could kill me if you wish.”

“I do not. You're a valuable friend, Thranduil, and perhaps there is a use for you yet.” Celeborn speaks quietly in kind. “I will not kill one who still seeks contrition from the Lord. You cannot help being what you are.”

Though the condescending tone rubs him the wrong way, the meaning is clear. “I still seek penance every sunrise, and if I could I would engage in self-flagellation for my sins.”

“Then I have no reason to harm you.” Celeborn removes the hilt from his back, the sound of sheathing telling him he's safe. “However, you're lucky I found you. You're not too far from my home, actually, and I heard your scream from the path I walk through the forest.”

Thranduil realizes he left Bard waiting back at the house. “Should I-?”

“No. You are not to return to my house, though I may show favoritism to you over others. Make no mistake; I don't like what you are. I simply hope that you don't change your ways.”

Thranduil nods. He didn't expect this from Celeborn. “I'll be leaving then. If we never see each another again, may I hope the Lord forgives you for showing me mercy.”

“He will, Thranduil. You know he will. Goodbye.”

Thranduil disappears, his skin tickling as he travels back to Bard's apartment. The positivity of his interaction with Celeborn fades fast as the realization comes hitting him in the face like a train. Legolas no longer wants to see him. He has no career. He's not even forty yet.

He has nothing.

Bard tries to speak to him when he arrives back at the apartment but he pushes past him and to his bedroom, locking the door. He paces and hurls a small figurine at the wall, watching it shatter.

He shatters everything in the room and feels his heart, still and cold, shatter like ice at the same time.

\-----

Thranduil leaves the apartment when Bard isn't looking one evening while he's helping Tilda with her homework. He stumbles down the stairs to the street below. He's not sure how he made it, tapping on walls let him see the outlines of the storefronts and the miscellaneous items in front of them. He bumps into people left and right but he doesn't care, too lost in his haze of apathy. The lines flash with each bump like strobe lights. They lead him to a sign for a pub. He knows he looks disheveled and pale and plenty ask him if he needs a doctor but he brushes them off and heads for the bar amid a sea of bodies. 

He realizes he doesn't know which bank notes are which in his wallet. He puts one down and asks for a bottle of the best wine the place has.

"Blimey! I'll get you two for that..." the bartender's voice drawls. Thranduil knows he spent more than necessary but he doesn't care. He has nothing to pay for anyway.

Eventually Thranduil has two bottles of semi-cheap wine though he can't tell by anything but smell. He downs one bottle almost immediately and five minutes later, he's bent double over a toilet, hacking his guts up. Now he has no coping mechanism for depression and an insatiable need for blood. Great.

A knock on the stall door startles him.

"Hey, you okay in there? Don't think I've ever seen a guy get so fucked that quickly before. And over wine to boot! Thought you were going to keel over...you were too sick to check with bathroom you went into!"

Her voice sounds like Litho's but with an abhorrent accented drawl, her laugh echoing in his ears. All too similar to one of days past, right here with him. He must be dreaming since everything feels so slightly stilted.

"I-I...my stomach has...not agreed with me lately..." he stammers out between wet coughs.

"Oh? Well, that wine was a stupid idea, then." she responds.

Thranduil only makes a sound of indifferent agreement while wiping his mouth and shakily gets to his feet. Luckily, the illness passes fast once the drink is out of his system. He feels almost normal again as he leaves the stall, clicking his tongue to find he can see the countertop's outline, and proceeds to wash his hands. The outline of the woman disappoints him, as she's tall and muscular whereas Litho was small and lithe in her agile form. He can feel the woman's eyes on him, her heartbeat thudding in his ears slow and steady, and he wipes his hands on paper towels. His mind briefly tells him he'd have to have dry hands to throttle her and he ignores the intrusive thought.

"What's your name, stranger?

"Lazarus." It's not an entire lie.

She snorts, giggling. "You're taking the piss, aren't you?"

"Not the name my parents gave me but the one I go by nowadays." he smiles wanly. "And yours?"

"Jessica. So much more...ordinary, I suppose. You, on the other hand, have quite the complex."

A chuckle escapes him. It's just shy of self-pitying. "I suppose I do."

They chat at a table away from the TVs to minimize noise, Thranduil never getting enough of the woman's voice despite the drawl that sounds so wrong. She's a nurse, a divorce under her belt and two kids to show for it, and likes to go sailing. Interesting enough, though Litho enjoyed sports that were more dangerous. He would often be dragged along on hikes or river rafting trips even if he couldn't swim. He'd end up waterlogged on the riverbank waiting for a kiss and a blanket.

He tells her as little about himself as he can. To her he's a mediocre lawyer with an estranged son, dead wife, and chronic health problems. His career took a particularly harsh nosedive, which explains the usage of the pseudonym.

“To avoid public attention, you know. I'm broken enough, I don't need more strife.”

"You're not broken, sweetie." she coos in a way that frustrates him to no end. "You're just having a rough time of it."

"No shit." Thranduil snorts and sips on a glass of water. "Career down the drain, a son that no longer loves me...and now I'm blind, to add insult to injury."

"I don't see you waving around a cane, though..."

"I don't need to." Thranduil replies dryly. "I have my ways of sight. A magician never reveals their secrets."

He gives her his most charming smile. His Catholic schoolteachers hated it because it meant he was planning something. Some loved it for the same reason, though he tries to forget those that did. Eventually the noise of the rabble combines with the dozens of heartbeats, and his head swims painfully with the stimuli.

"Hey, you don't look too good. Why don't you come back to my place?" Jessica offers.

"What, for an "exam?"" Thranduil leans back in his chair and laughs, the ease of flirty banter coming to him naturally. "I mean, I do have a headache, actually..."

He actually does and this conversation is adding to it.

"Then why don't I take care of you? You seem awfully tense, too..."

The rub of it is that Thranduil feels more emotion for Bard than he does for this faceless woman. He's grown attached, no matter how despicable it is. His father had beaten the homosexuality out of him, he'd had a wife and child, so how could he go back to his original preference?

He tells himself it's fine as she fucks him with her strap-on, just as he did with Litho. It's a bit too big but the burn is nothing to him now. It’s a woman that's thrusting up into him, making his thighs quake and his cock drip precome. It’s a woman who praises him, who tells him he’s doing so well while she rides his face, his tongue lapping at her cunt, making her cry out in orgasm before he’s allowed pleasure himself.

He rides her hard, his lithe and lightweight form easy for her to lift up and down on the phallus. He kisses her as best he can, imagining the lips he kissed years and years before. He's quiet as is she as he wraps his arms around her body, deliberately avoiding touching her as much as possible. His movements are erratic, hurried, and tears spring to his eyes as he realizes he can never truly have who he wants. Not anymore.

Jessica looks up to see this. "What's wrong, honey?"

He's not her "honey." Litho called him that as she fucked him just the same way. The words piss him off and only spur him to impale himself harder upon the false cock as her voice continues in a haze, white noise as he tries to reach his completion. Against all logic, he finds himself dipping his head towards her neck. All he can hear now is her pulse below his mouth as he leaves marks all over, quiet and breathy moans leaving his bow lips. The smell intoxicates him, driving him mad as his cries and pleading grows louder.

When Thranduil looks back up, his eyes are obsidian with need.

"What the fuck?!"

She tries to recoil but he grips her tightly, unwilling to let her escape. He feeds as he comes with a harsh, guttural snarl, tears pouring down his face as he bites into tender flesh. He feels slightly ill and trembles as she writhes, silencing her pained screams. Blood drips down his chin, warm and delicious. Her sputtering does nothing but drive more blood into his mouth, the hands fisted in his hair tugging strongly until his mouth detaches and she can look at him.

This is his first real taste of untainted, healthy human blood. It's better than any Moscato or Merlot in the world. He wonders if Litho would have yielded to him like this, all softness and kind words soothed to him afterwards as she bled.

"I...I don't, what...what did you do that for, you psycho?!" she cries. "I should call the cops!"

There's a Swiss army knife in the nightstand. He'd seen it when she grabbed the bottle of lube.

"You don't want to do that.” Thranduil's voice is monotone, yet almost easygoing as she looks towards the drawer. “I'm sorry you had to meet me, Jessica. May the grace of God take pity on you."

He grabs the knife. He clicks his tongue and he sees her form is frozen to the spot in fear.

"Please don't..." her voice sounds smaller, the blood loss starting to take effect. Her voice quakes and his heart, no longer beating, still pangs at how familiar it sounds. "Why are you doing this?"

He can't turn her, not in good conscience. She doesn't deserve this fate, his fate that only the devil himself could have devised. Words of contrition drip from his lips like the blood that stains the sheets, feeling a burning sensation as he speaks. It's similar to the sunlight on his skin but not as severe.

"O loving and kind God, have mercy. Have pity upon me and take away the awful stain of my transgressions. O, wash me, cleanse me from this guilt. Let me be pure again..."

_You never will be pure again._

As Thranduil tightens his grip on her, as the knife’s edge slits her throat, he sobs as he realizes this woman was the closest to his wife he would ever find again.

He drinks of her blood until she's as porcelain pale as he is. The shower he takes does nothing to help him feel cleaner though the blood sluices away down the drain. He finds a bottle of perfume and dumps it on the bed, then rubbing alcohol. After that, nail polish remover. All mix to form a pungent, disgusting odor that screams of alcohol. A box of matches is in one of the kitchen cupboards.

The fire hurts even as he lights the match and he tosses it onto the bed where flames burst into existence. He disappears after watching the bed turn into a pyre for a woman who did nothing wrong except meet the wrong person in a bar.

_She never deserved this..._

When he returns to Bard's house, he wears another man's clothing. Bard waits for him anxiously and knows the mingled scent of sex and blood well when he steps through the door. Thranduil is positively quaking in his borrowed shoes. Bard sits down on the couch and holds out his arms. Thranduil slots into them numbly, not quite sure what he wants out of this comfort. There is no heartbeat, there hasn't been in centuries. He shouldn't want that lack of heartbeat. He shuts his useless eyes to try to escape from his guilt. He can still smell the flame and feel the pricking on his skin.

"Her name was Jessica." he mumbles. “I couldn't do this to her.”

“I know.” Bard's voice is gentle, understanding, and this time the condescending tone is more of a comfort than an annoyance. “Go get into your pajamas.”

Thranduil can do nothing but obey, finding his bedroom and changes out of these foreign clothes. They will be burned later. Once in comfortable silk, Thranduil returns to find Bard on the couch, watching something on the TV.

“Come here.”

Thranduil feels his feet pad over to the couch, sinking onto it. Bard puts an arm over his shoulders and his head feels heavy as he rests it on Bard's shoulder.

“I've done what you did before. Too many times. The guilt is always the worst part, though I can't imagine how badly it affects you.” The quiet voice soothes the buzzing in Thranduil's head. “You will never free yourself of the guilt. You can only justify it, make it easier to live with.”

He's not sure what to say. It doesn't seem like there's anything he can say that would justify this woman's needless death. He committed a sin that cannot ever be forgiven. He has to live like this forever, committing murder after murder for sustenance.

“I wish Celeborn had left me be.”

Bard shifts so Thranduil's held in his arms. He considers recoiling from those arms for a second but his body doesn't allow him to do so. He's so tired of running. They lay like that for hours, until the sun peeks over the horizon and starts to paint the city in light, with the TV on at low volume. The news comes on. A story about an overnight fire in the home of Jessica McRowley is muted.

"Do you love me?" Thranduil's whisper breaks the silence, buzzing in the air. "Through all of my sin, through all of my disgusting and heinous actions, do you love me? Do you love such a monster?"

Bard only presses a kiss to his forehead and cards his fingers through Thranduil's hair, his voice low and quiet.

"Rest."

"I can't, you know that well enough…"

“I know.”

Thranduil kisses him, blood still on his lips. They both moan at the taste, hungrily pulling each other closer. Tears pour freshly down Thranduil's cheeks and the lips pull away from his own. Hs voice is low and hoarse when they pull apart.

"Fuck me."

Bard shakes his head and holds him tight. A nervous tremor, one not born of lust, runs through Thranduil and Bard only smooths his hair back, petting it gently.

"No, not now. You can't even decide if you love me in return yet, I won't do anything further until you make up your damned mind instead of stringing my own affection on in the hopes that you reciprocate."

Thranduil doesn't argue.

\-------

Over time, Thranduil learns to perfect his sonar ability. He's able to navigate perfectly in and out of crowds with ease. The hunger has lessened to a tolerable level and Bard's taught him how to hunt, nights often spent together in alleys finding suitable targets. This becomes his routine, walking the streets of London during the day and hunting at night. He passes by Westminster occasionally, clicking his tongue to see the massive abbey. It's a unique view, the outline of all of the spires and arches and gargoyles stark against an eternal night sky.

Now, however, they're sitting in the far corner of a coffee shop, sipping on weak tea. Thranduil never had a taste for the stuff, preferring strong, dark coffee, but now his options are limited. Bard's speaking to him but he's tuned out most of it, the noise and sensory input from the shop being a tad much for him this late in the day. Bard's voice raises just a tad, though not loud enough to be heard by the various hipsters and perpetually hungover businessmen, which brings Thranduil out of his thoughts.

"...but that gives me an idea. What if you apologize? Tell the Church you repented?"

Thranduil's eyebrow quirked, his lips resting on the rim of his cup, mumbling. "Oh? And here I thought vampires hated the clergy."

"We do. But...you could continue your work." Bard sips his tea in kind. "It's not like you haven't been keeping with your religious ideology this entire time, so it might be a natural segue back into regular life for you. Celeborn would certainly appreciate it and any clergy members we have as allies are amazing. I still hear you praying every morning in the shower, no matter how much you think I don't hear it, so why waste that obvious talent for gospel?"

He's happy that Bard hasn't tried to convince him not to believe in God. After all, Bard started out as a very religious man, it would be downright hypocritical of him to encourage atheism. The old vampire is quite accepting of his rigid doctrines and it’s somewhat off-putting. He was taught that vampires were atheist Satanists. Perhaps his teachings were a bit off, then. Bard clearly isn't hindering him nor discouraging him.

_Maybe that's because he wants you to figure out you're a dirty sinner for yourself so you'll renounce your faith. Don't you know that already? You're already a faithless heathen._

Thranduil sits up in his seat a tad when Bard clears his throat. He easily drifts off into his thoughts when his vision is now mostly nonexistent. "So what exactly are you playing at?"

Bard shrugs, looking out the window. Rain beats down upon the glass, a dreary day. "Might as well make the best of a bad situation...I’ve never had an associate with friends in the Church before. Could be a way to get information."

"Are we associates, then?" Thranduil snipes, his mood already dour for the day. "I thought we were more..."

"You know what I mean, Thranduil, stop being a little shit." Bard growls. Their moods often bounce off one another. "Besides, you haven't quite decided that yourself, have you?"

“Mm.” Thranduil takes a sip of his tea, brushing off Bard's comment. He's not sure whether they should date or not. He's starting not to give a shit either way.

"Cassocks are perfect for those averse to light and you wouldn't look out of place." Bard sips his tea and takes a small bite of a vegan sugar cookie. "You inspired many, Thranduil, and now there are many small sects within the church bent on destroying vampires. If we can gain intel on them, we could stage attacks or defend ourselves accordingly."

"I'm your puppet now, then." Thranduil mumbles sardonically around the rim of his cup.

"I need you to protect us, Thranduil. Use your knowledge for us, help us stay safe."

Thranduil growls as he considers the proposal. "So you want me to play for the opposite team."

"In a manner of speaking, yes."

He's not sure what to make of this. He wants to take the offer, but there are so many factors he'd have to take into account. Returning to the church will be easy, he can just say he's repented, changed his ways, and there's very little the church can do but let him back in. He wasn't formally excommunicated, so there wasn't any bad blood between them.

_Wasn’t there?_ Thranduil muses. _You did leave as a drunken heretic. They have all reason to deny you entrance._

"You don't have to answer now, Thranduil, it's not something that needs immediate attention." Bard continues. "It's just that being in league with one of the oldest vampires in the world means that I...manage things, in a sense. I need people to help me, especially when there are...deviants among us who are an unstable variable. This intel could help us take down the Church's hunters without there being unnecessary slaughter from said variables."

"You mean Oakenshield and his lot." Thranduil bristles. “And what's left of that clan that destroyed Elrond's family...”

"Precisely. You've come into the fold at an...interesting time. Clans across the globe are starting to fall apart for no discernable reason. Thorin's clan is deteriorating, breaking off to feed and none of them know how without causing chaos. He's having difficulty keeping them controlled. One of his members, Kili, has gotten into numerous situations that both Thorin and I have had to cover up. I have offered to help him, let him come under my wing to teach him how to hunt safely, but he has refused so far at Thorin's insistence. Moreover, the clan you mentioned, the Sons of Feanor, they are all but gone. One last member still lives, though knowledge of his whereabouts is unknown except to one or two for his safety. Periodically seaside villages in Ireland and Wales are attacked and it's rumored that it's Maglor's doing, but there aren't any confirmations. That's where you come in. You would simply...smooth things over in all of these cases. Act as a diplomat. If any incidents occur within your jurisdiction, cover them up and remove the source if necessary, whether by deflection or extermination. I have a couple like you globally. In fact, my North American contact just wiped out entire warring clans in the Pacific Northwest after they started to get humans involved. It was a rather messy affair, gained some notoriety…"

Thranduil takes a moment to gather his thoughts, mulling the information over as he sips his tea. "So you're telling me that I act as your mole in the church, putting myself in grave danger on a daily basis and also do your dirty work by playing damage control for the insane vampires in the world by killing them, too?”

“Well, it's worse if you put it that way…”

“What do I get out of all of this?” Thranduil is right to be upset, death waiting for him at every moment. “It's a dangerous position you're putting me in, the Vatican will burn me at the stake even in the modern day if I'm found out and I'll be targeted by other vampires to boot. I'm going to be putting myself in the shark tank without a cage; I expect full recompense for damages."

Bard sips his tea, thinking. "Full recompense will be given, much like with my other contacts. In addition, if you agree, I can restore your life back to you. Give you a home outside of the abbey, a personal driver, enough money to settle with for life...” Bard snorts. “Hell, I can even let you have my Netflix password if you like. I know how much you like Ru Paul's Drag Race...it certainly didn't just show up in my recent history out of nowhere."

Thranduil looks away, knowing his guilty pleasure for entertainment has been found out. "You're insane, Bard."

"You don't even know the half of it." Bard smiles, finishing the cookie and his tea.

Thranduil's not sure he wants to know the half of it. "I'll do it."

Thranduil listens to the rain, even as Bard goes on happily about his new position. It had begun a cacophonous downpour and whatever Bard says next is lost in the liquid static and his thoughts.

Redemption for a vampire. Blasphemy in its textbook definition. Thranduil would laugh if his life wasn't on the line.

\------

The two lay in bed that evening, curled around each other. They had become used to this at least, making their lives easier. Bard won't get his verbal affirmation of love, Thranduil's said so to someone before and she's now long dead. He won't risk that on another. He tucks his head under Bard's chin, thinking quietly. Bard never sees the tears on Thranduil's face but he can feel them roll down his cheeks. Stability is here, certainty of security...he has to leave.

"It's not safe for all of us if I stay here."

"Where will you go?" Bard murmurs.

He can feel, under his fingertips, the underlying tenseness and anxiety in Bard's torso. He doesn't want to hear what he inevitably has to say.

"Somewhere private. I have a plan in mind; I will tell you when I get settled into my new life."

Bard sighs. "Thranduil, you can't...not now. Now that...this has begun. You can't just leave."

Thranduil kisses him flush on the lips. He turns them over off their sides and straddles Bard's lap.

"It's going to happen. I'm merely going to repay you for your kindness before you're going to hate me."

With that, he kisses at Bard's neck, the pale skin soft under his lips. His hips cant and roll, a hardness growing underneath him.

"Thranduil..." Bard breath grows heavier, though it's not for need of oxygen. "You don't...have to do this..."

“I want to, Bard." Thranduil mumbles as he tugs off Bard's shirt. “I owe you so much...”

They fuck slowly, Thranduil's hands plastered on Bard's chest as he rides his cock with abandon. Bard's centuries of time has given him much patience, much more than Thranduil, leaving him a writhing and moaning mess before long. Both aren't sure how long it takes them as they reach orgasm, Thranduil arching his back gracefully as he spills into his hand with a low moan. Bard takes a while longer, thrusting up into Thranduil's body even as he shivers and shudders through overstimulation. Eventually the both of them collapse in a heap of sheets, a haze of foggy contentment settling over them as they drift in and out of consciousness.

By the time the sun rises, Thranduil clicks his tongue and views the apartment building's outline. A roaring in his ears tells him what he needs to know is happening, the screaming that follows high-pitched and filled with terror.

He knows Bard will escape, he's run this far with his children, but he has to remove the vampire from his life before starting anew. He flees the scene, flees the city, just as London awakes to its newest arson.

Thranduil does this for Bard's safety, not his own. That doesn't mean his heart doesn't crack open with fresh new wounds.

\-----

A few phone calls and a couple of visits to Westminster and he's reinstated as a priest properly. Those in Westminster aren't unhappy to see him return, as they all felt he was a valuable member of the church before he'd started his search for vampires. They're shocked by the knowledge that he was captured and held hostage by a clan, though he hides the evidence permanently etched into his neck behind a high collar. Galion is overjoyed to see him, hugging him tightly as he steps into his old bedroom.

“I'm so glad you've decided to return!” Galion touches his face gingerly. “You're so pale, though...and blinded. How'd that happen?”

Thranduil doesn't answer, he simply unpacks his clothing and meager belongings. The suitcase he once carried newspaper clippings in now holds various implements of torture and execution, stored in the very back of the shelf in his closet. He plans to move it back to the cellar closet he once had as a second home if it hasn't been closed up. The bag is a stopgap measure in the event that things go south. It also holds things that aid in healing vampire wounds. The job doesn't come without risk. Even without the possibility of being outed, Thranduil is still surrounded by things that could harm him. He keeps his old silver cross pendant outside of his shirt where it won't burn his skin, his rosary now made of black glass beads rather than metal.

“Thranduil? Are you alright?” Galion's worried tone tells him he's been silent too long.

Thranduil slams the lid of his second suitcase shut, smiling. “Why don't I tell you how I escaped?”

Galion believes his story without question, listening on in rapture as he weaves the tale with flowery prose embellishing his own heroics. His health had suffered for weeks after the harrowing escape but he's finally on the mend, or so he says. It isn't an entire lie, particularly when he mentions that he's now blind due to some sort of acid the vampires used on him. Elrond told him during his captivity that Thorin commonly uses acid to blind his victims to avoid recognizing the environment. His fellow priests pray for his health, claiming it's God's miracle that he's able to move around so easily. Thranduil has to keep from laughing for he knows all too well that it isn't God's will at all, it's something altogether supernatural. They suggest he joins the choir, even proposing having him replace the soon to retire cantor. He takes the position happily, as he loves to sing and has a voice that everyone loves. His go to list of hunters tells him that enough, and upon returning to his cellar closet office, he finds his list easily enough.

He wonders if he should have one take Bard out. He decides against it.

He's known little else but the church from his youth, so the chants of his choir practice for the next Mass and the warmth of the candles surrounding the altar gives him a sense of stability again. As he walks through the pews, making sure the Missals are all accounted for and set back to their rightful places, he considers his new life and what he's going to do with it. He no longer needs the Church, in all honesty. His kind isn't wanted and he's fallen so far from the doctrines he once revered. He's started receiving orders from Bard and his first target is to be executed tonight after his own feeding. At least he won't have to return to the abbey covered in blood, not with his home far out in the English countryside similar to that of Galadriel and Elrond's homes. The forest he lives in is dark and labyrinthine, meaning few could ever manage to find him unless he chose it.

That's where he plans to gather his followers. He cannot be a double agent without contacts. Thranduil knows that if there’s one thing Bard understands best, it’s not what you know but whom you know instead. It’s no wonder Bard is a businessman. Vampire politics act in much the same way.

\-----

Galion leaves the abbey one evening. Thranduil decides to follow his best friend while cloaked in shadow, knowing he won't be noticed. Flitting around the cathedral, he ducks under pews and up to the ornate ceiling, not much more than smoke and the absence of light. As Galion approaches the large, wooden doors, Thranduil steps out in front of him smoothly from his place on the wall. Though he can't see the boy jump in fright, he can smell the blood rushing through his veins, hear how Galion's pulse races for just that second. He smells and sounds absolutely tantalizing.

"Oh, Thranduil! I-I didn't know you had stayed behind so late. I thought you would have gone home by now, what with your health and all...do you need a ride?" the boy stammers, clearly thrown off by this sudden appearance. Perfect.

"Just taking care of some plans first." Thranduil replies calmly, though his eyes turn their shade of obsidian and he can hear Galion's pulse skyrocket. He pulls on a pair of black leather gloves, all the better to avoid touching silver or leaving traces, though frowned upon in daily use. "Though there is one small thing worrying me and I believe you can help."

Thranduil knows he's a leader at heart. He's not content being tied down to the orders of an old vampire that wishes to control everything himself. Bard is a natural leader as well, and the vampire world is his totalitarian kingdom, just as in the days of the Ottoman Empire. No longer would Thranduil have to be a reclusive hermit in his false home, afraid of everything around him. He has his followers; he knows they will listen to his word like gospel no matter what form they take. Even Celeborn has now warmed to him, awaiting further orders of execution. The rest will do his bidding in any form it may take even now. Galion will be a start and an example to the others.

"Wh-What's wrong with your eyes?!"

Thranduil grins, his teeth no longer hidden. "You would follow me to the ends of the earth, wouldn't you, Galion?"

The thudding in his ears only grows.

"I-I...how...Thranduil, you must be joking-"

Thranduil grabs the man by his collar, the cassock's hem billowing by the sudden movement. There's a sneer in his voice as he speaks next.

"I assure you, Galion, I am quite serious. I need your assistance. You are my best and brightest hunter and assistant." The lie spills from his lips like honey, succulent with the promise of attaining what he wants.

The choking sounds only spur Thranduil on as he pulls the man close, his words mere whispers now, a short laugh escaping him.

"I have tasted blood, Galion. This is my penance, my cross to bear. Will you not help to ease my burden? I need you by my side as you were before if I am to continue my goal of annihilation."

Galion merely sputters in his grip, fear silencing his tongue save for the stammering and babbling that leaves his lips not of his own volition. Eventually more unhelpful, noncommittal drivel leaves him.

"Thranduil, I-I...you can't be, you're one of God's children, it's i-impossible! Vampires don't really exist, I've just...humored you..."

"Why would I lie to you, Galion?" Thranduil purrs in his ear, setting the boy down onto his feet. The fear, he knows, will keep him frozen. "I never did before, I merely changed how I escaped Thorin's clutches. I was injured, I was maimed, and I was blinded, yes. What I did not say was that I was killed."

"B-But...you're alive now..." Galion murmurs.

"I died, Galion, and was reborn like Lazarus at the hands of Jesus Christ. Four days I lay inert before the flames of the devil licked at my heels, turning to ice soon after. My heart turned to ice at the hands of Thorin Oakenshield. He is a monster that needs to be taken down. He tortured me and turned me into what stands before you. I had a mind to kill myself long before I was given a higher purpose than this."

Thranduil gestures to the abbey around them.

The scent of Galion's blood is putting him into some sort of trance as he speaks. "I am your friend, Galion, in whatever form I take. I will not harm you, this I promise, but I am no longer one of God's children. Will you join me?"

"I don't...k-know." Galion sputters.

"Do you wish to have a purpose, one more than being the cardinals' puppet? You may yet be able to do something more with your life and better the world. I plan on hunting vampires, Galion, in their own territory. I will work for both sides to destroy both from the inside. I wish to rid this world of the dichotomy, all of the violence between the holy and unholy. Do you wish to have peace among the world?"

A nod flickers into his vision as he clicks his tongue. Galion's outline straightens as he stands tall despite his shorter stature. "...yes."

Thranduil smiles, flashing his pointed canines. "Then you must prepare for war. Be silent, now."

Teeth pierce soft flesh and true to form, Galion doesn't utter more than a soft cry. Sweet fluid flows into his mouth like the wine he used to imbibe, like the blood of the Eucharist. The body in his hands starts to become cold, and Thranduil realizes what he has done.

_I've created in my own image...._

"Thranduil..." Galion's weak voice reaches his ears as well as the pitter-patter of blood dripping to the tile below his feet.

"Hush now, you will be fine." Thranduil soothes, petting the boy's hair. Galion looked much like Legolas to him, the same tone he used for his son he uses now. "Sleep one last time. There will be much to do once you're awake and well again."

Once Galion goes limp in his arms, the seizures still a while off yet, he sets him down and gently touches the tips of his gloved fingers to the blood that pools on the floor. It is thick, decadent, and he only allows himself a brief taste before approaching the high altar, fingertips gently touching the wall with reverence. One time, he would never have thought he'd do such a thing but now he has no care. Though he cannot see, his letters are large enough to be easily written. He does not need to see.

He finishes his task and turns his back to the sacred place he once called home, removing the black cloak that he always wore outside now. He ponders what he has become as he casts his head upwards towards the vaulted ceiling he knows is beautiful, making his way through the nave to the door. Picking Galion up again, he notices the slight tremor rippling through his body. They must leave before anyone approaches. Galion will start screaming soon which would surely bring the clergy running. His new home will be perfect.

"Come, my friend." Thranduil shrouds the boy in his cloak, whispering. "I will take you to safety. Rest there."

Shadow cloaks the abbey as they disappear. Candles are left burning at the high altar, one Thranduil will step foot on within a few days as planned, another story to tell the masses. He wants them to know who gave him this power, a thing he would have never had otherwise. He would have stayed an alcoholic, reclusive priest if not for Bard coming into his life. He knows he is so much more now.

_I am a king among men._

\----

Come dawn, the news is abuzz in Thranduil's ears. There are crowds of clergymen and police officers alike, hushed whispers of shock and terror. The anchor says the painting on the wall of the high altar has been desecrated with an L that mutates into a cross. The body of the victim is nowhere to be seen despite the lack of blood trails. No evidence of the killer can be found, as if they had both vanished. The symbol spreads fear for what could only mean the most severe breach in religious security and safety in centuries, since another vampire took God's word and twisted it in a plume of smoke and darkness after leaving tens of thousands dripping on the stake.

Vampires have invaded the church. Thranduil is under no delusion that they will be pointing fingers at him for having brought them to the abbey's doorstep.

The words coming from the TV brighten Thranduil's mood, though. He waits for Galion to wake from his expected comatose state. There's no doubt that the entire world is looking for him now, or all of it that matters. They will not find him. Galion will recover here in solitude, unlike his own time in the Numenor colony, and he will be trained as a vampire hunter with the new skills he has in his arsenal. He fills with a childlike giddiness at the idea of being a mentor, a trainer, a figure of authority. Power isn't his primary goal but it's a nice addition all the same. He would have an army of vampire double agents, slithering their way into the seats of governmental and religious organizations while also finding their fellow vampires and having them atone and burn for what they had done, what they do. He would reign supreme, unchecked or challenged in time, with Bard by his side. The days of royalty for his lover would come back to him easily and they would triumph as one entity.

"No word yet from the Vatican in terms of an official statement. The first clergyman had returned briefly but concerns are shared among the clergy about his physical and mental status. The second has yet to be found, though was a young member. The kidnapper's alias was left in blood at the scene, spurring many of the church to arms in search of the culprit. Judging by the mark left and from what the archbishop can piece together, this is the mark of a man committing crime under the guise of a religious figure."

"What is it, dear man? Go on, you can say his name." Thranduil goads the screen, a wicked smirk curling his lips as he drinks from a glass, red liquid swirling in it. Blood mixed with wine is the only way he can drink his favorite Brunello now, though he thinks the taste is enhanced both ways.

"Lazarus."

Thranduil laughs maniacally, the sound echoing through his mostly empty mansion. The archbishop, the one who taught him how to hunt, comes on, saying he's looking for the threat. Only those in the know understand his true meaning. Thranduil couldn't miss it if he tried.

He crosses his legs as he sits in his high-backed chair, sipping his wine, waiting.

_I am patient, after all. I can wait._

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah, I hope you enjoyed this! I have a lot going on here that couldn't be explained directly in it, so if there's enough interest, I could make smaller fics revolving around other parts of this AU I have fleshed out. For one thing, Thorin's character is fleshed out better in another part of the AU I have already written down in fic form. I might touch it up if people care enough.


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